


Animagus at War

by White_Squirrel



Series: Animagus-Verse [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adopted Harry Potter, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate History, Animagus Harry Potter, F/M, Gen, Good Dumbledore, Harry with the Grangers, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Politics, Powerful Enemies, Powerful Wizards, Reasonable Ministry, Seers, Smart Harry, Wandless Magic, Wizarding World, World Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-20 22:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 73,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14270739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Squirrel/pseuds/White_Squirrel
Summary: Sequel to The Accidental Animagus. Voldemort’s back, and this time, he’s not alone. Harry and his family are caught in the middle as the wizarding war goes international. Years 5-7.





	1. A Visit to the Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.
> 
> If you’re just joining us, this story is a sequel to The Accidental Animagus, which covers Years 1-4 at Hogwarts, and I’ve also published a companion piece titled The World of the Accidental Animagus, which showcases magic from around the world and introduces some secondary characters who will play a role in this story. This story will cover the duration of the wizarding war, which should be roughly Years 5-7.
> 
> The story so far: Harry is a cat-animagus and was adopted by the Grangers at age five. Harry and Hermione are self-taught wandless magic users. Sirius was freed from Azkaban in first year, and he and Harry are both active members of the Wizengamot. Fenrir Greyback was captured in third year. Four of Voldemort’s horcruxes have been destroyed: the locket, the diary, the ring, and Harry’s scar. Voldemort allied with a powerful dark witch from Mexico to resurrect him, which is getting the ICW involved in the war.
> 
> This story will not be actively updated for the foreseeable future, although I may throw up a chapter once in a while when the inspiration strikes. I really want to focus on finishing the Arithmancer series first, but I do intend to come back and finish it. That said, I would be willing to talk about collaboration on this story with anyone who believes they could write a worthy continuation to what you see here.

Prime John Minister John Major entered his office on Monday, the twenty-sixth of June and was surprised to find his secretary had cleared his schedule for the morning. When he demanded to know why, she told him he had an emergency meeting with the Queen at nine o’clock, but to her own concern, she was unable to tell him what it was about. He dutifully rushed to Buckingham Palace only to find that Her Majesty didn’t know what it was about either—only that Maxwell Barnett, the Royal Court Magician, had contacted her and said he needed to speak with both of them urgently.

Major was most concerned by that, but Mr. Barnett had always been a good sort, and Her Majesty trusted him implicitly, so he waited. However, they were both surprised when, promptly at nine o’clock, not one, but _four_ wizards entered her office. That had certainly never happened before.

He recognised Mr. Barnett at once, as well of Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge, much to his surprise. He thought those two wizards wouldn’t be caught in the same room together given the difference in their attitudes towards non-magicals. The other two he didn’t know. One was a woman with short, grey hair and a monocle, and the other was a man of similar age with an exotic look about him and oddly-coloured eyes. All of them looked very grave. They bowed to the Queen, although Fudge and the woman had the clueless look of foreigners who didn’t know much about the etiquette.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnett,” the Queen said. “Am I to take it from this extraordinary meeting that a matter of great concern has arisen?”

“Good morning, Your Majesty, Prime Minister, and I’m afraid it has,” Barnett said. “Allow me to introduce Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic of Great Britain and Ireland, Amelia Bones, our Director of Magical Law Enforcement, and Edward Grayson, Ambassador-at-Large for Australia, who is lending his expertise in this matter.”

Australia, then. Major had never met a foreign wizard, though he knew many had been in the country for their World Cup. They exchanged the usual greetings, and to Major’s surprise, the Queen seemed to recognise the Ambassador.

“Ambassador Grayson,” she said, “I believe we met once at the close of the Second World War.”

“We did, Your Majesty,” he replied, “and I’ve been pleased to spend a year in the United Kingdom again, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“I see. And what circumstances have arisen that have led you to call this meeting? I was expecting to hear only a report on the conclusion of your Tetrawizard Tournament.”

Fudge looked a little surprised that she knew about that, but he answered, “It’s the conclusion of the Tournament that we need to talk to you about…Your Majesty. The—the third task was…”

“Was sabotaged, Your Majesty,” Amelia Bones said. She seemed to pick up the thread faster. “I’ve compiled a preliminary report for you, of course. The two winning champions—the British champions—were kidnapped. I’m afraid Cedric Diggory was murdered, and Harry Potter made a narrow escape, returned to Hogwarts, and shouted to an audience of about five hundred that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned.”

Both the Queen and Major tensed at that pronouncement. “The evil wizard you were fighting fifteen years ago?” Major said. “Isn’t he the one you said Harry Potter defeated before?”

“Defeated, yes, but not killed, although we thought he had,” Fudge said.

“Which I had informed you that Albus Dumbledore has been saying for some time,” Barnett reminded them. “And for the record, Mr. Potter has testified that You-Know-Who’s defeat on Halloween of 1981 was his mother’s doing.”

“Yes, but that’s really beside the point,” Fudge said. “He’s back, and we need to prepare.” He said this with an air of someone who was still trying to convince himself, and both of the muggles noticed.

“Do you have any proof of Lord Potter’s claims, Mr. Fudge?” the Queen asked shrewdly.

Amelia Bones answered, “Besides his own testimony, only indirect, ma’am, but what we’ve been able to confirm is even worse.”

“Worse?” Major said.

“Ambassador?” she said.

Grayson produced a small box and opened it, revealing a stone knife with a white handle. “This is a reproduction of the murder weapon that killed Mr. Diggory,” he said. He handed it over for them to inspect closer. “The design is Aztec, but the construction is modern, as it was in the original. The handle is made from the finger bone of a dragon. Lord Potter’s description of the murderer was very clear. It was a witch named Meztli Ocelotl, better known as La Pantera. She is as feared in Mexico as Lord Voldemort is here, and she is probably the world’s most brilliant expert on sacrificial rituals. It would have been well within her means to return Voldemort to life.”

Major looked up from the knife. “You said he wasn’t dead.”

“With magic, it’s not always one or the other. The point is that the knife confirms Lord Potter’s testimony that she was present, and thus, his claim that Voldemort is back should be considered trustworthy, too.”

Barnett spoke up, “Ma’am, I can also confirm, since he’s given me permission, that when I taught Lord Potter Occlumency, I saw in his mind that he faced You-Know-Who twice before Saturday night in various guises. He would not be likely to make such a mistake.”

“Very well. What is being done in response?” the Queen asked.

“Well, ma’am, er…Dumbledore made a few suggestions…” Fudge said. “Bringing werewolves back into the fold of magical society, for example. Of course, we were already doing that, and without Greyback, You-Know-Who’s recruitment there is stymied…But I’m not sure his other suggestions are politically tenable.”

“Why not, Mr. Fudge.”

“Ma’am, he suggested removing the dementors from Azkaban! Seems to think they’re a security liability—”

“They are in my experience,” Grayson cut in.

“Many of us disagree. And even if I _did_ agree, what would we do with them? If they got loose, it would be even worse.”

“There’s an ICW reservation in northern Siberia,” Grayson said calmly. “Britain isn’t the first nation to deal with this problem, Mr. Fudge.”

“Thank you for your advice, Ambassador,” Fudge said sarcastically. “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions about the giants, too?”

“Only that it couldn’t hurt to talk with them.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You never had any in Australia. Around here, people have only one opinion about giants: they want them to stay in Russia, far away from us—”

“Mr. Fudge!” the Queen broke them up. “What is being done _here_?”

Fudge took a deep breath. “Amelia?” he said.

Bones flipped through some parchments. “Dumbledore informed me months ago that this was a possibility, ma’am,” she said. “I mobilised what I could then, and I’m able to do much more now. Of course, Dumbledore’s doing his own thing.”

“And what is he doing?” the Queen asked.

“He calls it the Order of the Phoenix. It’s an off-the-books intelligence-gathering organisation, or at least, that’s what it’s _supposed_ to be. I understand they did quite a bit of fighting in the last war. I’ll be speaking with him about it soon. I think he’s under the impression that I don’t know about it. I wouldn’t normally stand for such vigilantism at all, except it’s a legal grey area because he’s the Chief Warlock. Anyway, that’s a minor issue. My department is increasing security around our public spaces and critical infrastructure, and I’m trying to vet my own people better without causing too much disruption. Unfortunately, we’re short-staffed. Recruitment’s been down for the past decade.”

“Why? Is there anything you can do about that?” Major asked.

“We have. We identified a choke point in…in what I believe you would call our educational pipeline for Aurors. We resolved it several years ago, which _has_ increased our recruitment. Unfortunately, the people who benefited from the change are all fresh-faced recruits and trainees with only a year of experience under their belts. We’re also investigating two possible jailbreaks and another kidnapping that we believe are related to the incident on Saturday, which is eating up additional resources.”

“How’s that, Ms. Bones?” Major asked.

“I didn’t mention it before, Prime Minister, but the person who sabotaged the task on Saturday is believed to have been a man we thought died in prison many years ago. We’re investigating that and a similar incident from last year to see if he actually escaped. Whoever it was, we know that he kidnapped and impersonated one of our other department heads to pull it off. Fortunately, we found Mr. Monroe alive yesterday, but he doesn’t remember anything since September. We don’t know if he’ll recover enough to testify.”

“Most unfortunate,” Major said. “If there’s any assistance we can render, please ask us. Now, what can we do on our side? Oh, and I should probably warn you at this point that I’m currently facing leadership elections within my party. I’m quite confident I’ll win, but there’s a small chance you’ll have to take this up again with John Redwood come the fourth of July.”

The wizards frowned. “That could complicate things,” Bones said, making a note of it. “We weren’t aware of anything like that going on. When is the next general election?”

“Unless things go very badly, the spring of 1997.”

“I see. Well, I’m afraid there’s very little organised action you can take in the muggle world, Prime Minister—certainly whilst maintaining the Statute of Secrecy, but we can of course go over our strategic assessment now.”

“Yes. Let’s.”

“Indeed,” the Queen agreed, “although before you leave, I _would_ like a report on the third task and on how Lord Potter is doing.”

* * *

Harry Potter, also known as Ratsbane, lay sunning himself on the living room floor. As he was now, he appeared to be an adolescent black cat with white feet, bright green eyes, and a strange white mark on his head in the shape of a lightning bolt. Harry had been spending a lot of his time in cat form this week. This was partially to deal with the stress of what had happened in the last few days, but not all. It was partially because he didn’t want to pay any attention to the newspapers. The sensationalism around him revealing himself as an animagus and (rather more importantly) that Voldemort was back got annoying very quickly. But mostly, it was to keep Rowena company.

Rowena, formerly Hypatia, had once belonged to Harry’s birth parents—the same cat he had nearly run over with his toy broomstick on his first birthday. She had survived the explosion of the Potters’ cottage and wandered in Godric’s Hollow for six years until Harry found her again. Needless to say, she liked him much more after he’d grown up some.

But now, Rowena was seventeen years old—eighty-four in cat years. She was arthritic, going deaf, had lost a couple of teeth, and, which was finally too much for her, Harry could smell that her kidneys were failing.

Harry’s adoptive parents, Daniel and Emma Granger, had offered to get her treatment, but Harry could smell that she had a lot of other problems under the surface and probably wouldn’t last out the summer anyway. It would be kinder to just let her go, he said. So he had been spending a lot of his time keeping vigil by her side, lying beside her in the sun. Crookshanks stayed nearby too, though not as close.

Harry nuzzled Rowena’s neck, and she meowed softly. A true cat’s thoughts and ‘speech’ were pretty simple, but he could tell she liked having him by her side now. He only half-listened to the human voices around him.

“I really don’t think this is healthy for him.”

“He’s grieving in his own way, Emma.”

“I’m not so sure. You know being in cat form suppresses his emotions. I don’t like seeing him spend all his time like that.”

“I know, but Sirius says he just needs time.”

“Sirius was in Azkaban for ten years, Dan. It’s not the same. Look, I can’t imagine what it was like for Harry, seeing his parents and Cedric in that in-between place. I would’ve thought it would be some amount of closure—not that he doesn’t still need time, but he’s dealing with it worse than I would have expected.”

“It’s not just because of Cedric, though,” Hermione spoke up. “He’s doing this for Rowena, too.”

“What do you mean?” Emma said.

“Well, it’s just like we’d keep vigil over a person on their deathbed. For Harry, it’s the same with Rowena. She was his parents’ cat, after all. It only seems strange to us because he’s doing it in cat form, where most humans would just wait till they had to put her to sleep and take her to the vet.”

“We know Harry cares a lot about cats, Hermione,” she replied. “It’s still strange.”

“Not to me, Mum. I know we’ve all known Harry for years, but you didn’t see him cry over Mrs. Norris when she was petrified in second year—and most of our classmates would rather give her a swift kick. He really sees cats as people. I mean, intellectually, he knows they’re not the same, but I think all the time he spent as a kitten when he was little imprinted on him a lot.”

Emma sighed and looked down at her son. “He’s never really done things normally, has he?”

“No, not even close,” Dan said.

“I can sympathise, really. But still, he’s been like that since we got home. I don’t want him neglecting himself either.”

Hermione frowned. She could tell that was a concern. Even if her brother wasn’t deliberately using his cat form for escapism, he was still repressing his emotions with it. It would cause him trouble later.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on him,” Dan said. He lowered his voice to a whisper, though he knew Harry’s keen hearing might still pick it up. “If he keeps it up after Rowena passes…”

“I didn’t think she was that poorly,” Emma objected. “Does he really think she’s that close…?”

None of them could answer that. “Hmm…” Hermione mused. “Give me a few minutes.” She closed her eyes and concentrated, and she immediately shifted to the form of an unusually shaggy Eurasian river otter, which went by the name of Fisher. She cautiously approached the cats in the living room. Unlike them, she found it uncomfortably warm in the sun, but she concentrated on the smells. She could tell at once that something was off, but she went through the motions of making conversation anyway.

_“Sire and Dam are scared for you, Death-to-Rats,”_ she said. The language barrier was not that great between their species, but the language itself was pretty limited.

_“I am fine, Fish-Catcher,”_ he replied.

_“You say you are fine all the time.”_

_“I want to be with—”_ He meowed something untranslatable, which was Rowena’s Feline name. True cats being simple creatures, the closest rendition was probably _Old-Cat-Friend._ _“I will deal with human things when it is done.”_

_“You need to be human to eat and sleep,”_ Hermione said sternly. _“It is bad for you if you don’t.”_

_“I will be,”_ he promised.

Hermione left him and returned to her parents, shifting back to human. “Rowena’s worse than we thought she was,” she said anxiously. “I couldn’t smell it as well as he could, but I could still tell. Animals can smell sickness and…and death.”

“Is Harry okay?” Emma asked.

“It’s all very simple to Ratsbane. He wants to watch over Rowena, and that’s what he’s going to do. I don’t think he’s trying to escape, Mum, and honestly…I think Rowena only has a couple more days. It can’t hurt too much to let him, can it?”

“No, I suppose not. Poor dear. I know he was on really good terms with Cedric, and now this.”

“I’m hoping he’ll be a bit more prepared for this,” Hermione said softly. “He’s known Rowena wasn’t doing well for over a year.”

“It’ll still be hard though. It always is, and especially for Harry…” I just hope we can pick him back up when it’s over.

* * *

Rowena died three days later, and Harry, though in mourning, seemed to improve now that he we less preoccupied. He spent more time as a human, though he still spent quite a bit of time as a cat to keep Crookshanks company. Sirius came over when he heard the news to comfort him. He knew that going through two deaths near to him in as many weeks had to be difficult, no matter what the circumstances.

“It’s always hard, Cub,” he told him. “Doesn’t matter who it is. We’ve all lost plenty of people. I never had a pet myself, but I had friends who did…anyway, we’re all here for you, whatever you need.”

Harry didn’t say much of anything for a while, the idea still forming in his mind, but when he was ready, he said the words that Hermione and Sirius had already half expected: “I want to bury her with my parents.”

Dan and Emma were sceptical. “Can you actually do that?” Emma asked.

“I’m Harry Potter,” he said. “Who’s going to question it?”

Emma gave him a stern look, but they both knew he was right.

The next day, the Grangers found themselves at another funeral, albeit the first they had ever attended for an animal. Rowena was placed in a large shoe-box and lovingly carried to the church graveyard in Godric’s Hollow. It was a small affair. Only Sirius, Remus, and Dora stood there with them by James’s and Lily’s graves, though they watched warily for any threats. The only other person there, since she lived nearby, was Bathilda Bagshot.

They didn’t dig a proper grave. Instead, Harry and Hermione wandlessly opened a crevasse in the earth beside the Potters’ gravestone, about three feet deep and just wide enough for the shoe-box. They said a few words (Harry had the most, of course), and they laid Rowena in the ground and covered her over, and Sirius laid down a small grave marker that he had carved as a fitting tribute. It read:

 

_And their beloved cat,_

_HYPATIA ROWENA POTTER_

_1978-1995_

 

No doubt, the press would have a field day when they saw the new marker, but for now, it was just for them.

“Harry…” Hermione said on the drive home. She was wary in case he began to withdraw unhealthily, now. “Someday down the line—probably after the war’s over, honestly—I’m going to buy you a kitten. You’ve been through so much, I feel like you need something young and playful in your life.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” he muttered, barely acknowledging her.

She sighed and sat silently for a while. Grieving though he was (and it was hard on her, too!), his mood seemed to swing back and forth rather than where she’d much rather see him make a steady recovery. They were nearly home when she thought of something else that might cheer him up.

“Say, Harry?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“I know it’s soon, so I understand if you want to put it off some, but we still owe Neville and Luna a date at the cinema. They wanted to see a film this summer, remember? And maybe we could introduce them to Paul and Tiffany, too.”

Paul and Tiffany had been Harry’s and Hermione’s two closest friends from muggle school since they were very small, and though they struggled to keep in touch with them after they started at Hogwarts, both of them had expressed interest in meeting any future boyfriends and girlfriends last summer. As it happened, Harry and Hermione both now had one.

Hermione wasn’t sure how her brother would react to her suggestion, but his expression softened a little as he thought about it. “Yeah, that could be fun,” he said halfheartedly. “Maybe we could do it in a couple weeks or so—before things get too crazy.”

Unfortunately, crazy was exactly how they were expecting things to get with Voldemort being back. “That sounds good, Harry,” she agreed. “We should write them soon and arrange it, then.”

“Yeah…Although I’m not sure what’ll happen if you put Luna in the same room as a couple of muggles.”

“She lives in a muggle village, Harry. She can’t be that bad.”

“We’ll see,” Harry said. Harry had got together with Luna Lovegood at the Yule Ball last year, and, granted, he thought she was brilliant and…adorable was probably the word that best described her, but she did tend to believe in the oddest things, even by wizard standards. She took after her father in that, who was a conspiracy theorist and a tabloid journalist. And even if she restrained herself about magic, she also had a tendency to spout off uncomfortable truths with no warning.

It was an adventure.

“You know, Mione,” he added, “we should probably visit Sensei John before too long.”

“Yes, good idea,” she agreed. Sensei John had been their karate instructor all through primary school and had taught them skills that had served them well indirectly by helping them learn duelling, Quidditch, and Occlumency. Suddenly, Hermione sat up straight. “Harry, I’ve just thought of something?”

“What?”

“Shouldn’t it be ‘John-sensei’?”

“…Well, I guess ‘traditional’ is a relative term.”

* * *

The next person to visit the Grangers, however, was not a muggle friend, but turned out to be Albus Dumbledore. They could tell he was girding himself for war, for his manner was more subdued than usual, even though he seemed happy today. The robes were the biggest giveaway. He’d foregone his usual bright colours for a more subdued silver, lending a very different atmosphere to the meeting.

“Good morning, Grangers,” he said as he stepped through the Floo. “Thanks you for speaking with me on short notice.”

“Well, you _are_ kind of running this war effort,” Dan said. “We aren’t likely to refuse.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mr. Granger. I’ve asked Sirius and Remus to come as well. You should all hear this. While I do have other business to discuss, there is good news today.”

“There is?” Harry said?

“Indeed, Harry. And I must say, it is a welcome change.”

Sure enough, Sirius and Remus Apparated to Crawley a few minutes later, and the family quickly assembled in the living room to hear what Dumbledore had to say.

“Alright, Albus,” Sirius said, “good news, you say? We could definitely use some.”

“Indeed.” The old wizard sat in the overstuffed chair and told them, “We have had a most fortuitous stroke of luck. You will be pleased to hear that last night, Professor Grayson and I located and destroyed another of Voldemort’s horcruxes.”

Harry gasped. That was the best news he’d heard in months.

“I had no idea you were close,” Emma breathed. “Which one was it?”

“Amazingly, the one I had not identified and had nearly despaired of finding. It was the Lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw. Alas, it’s a shame to destroy an object of such historical importance, but there was no choice.”

“The Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw?” Hermione gasped. “You _found_ it? Where _was_ it?”

“Incredible as it may seem, Hermione, Voldemort had hidden it inside Hogwarts. Specifically, in the vanishing room that your father, Harry, told you about in Limbo.”

Everyone turned to stare at Harry. When Voldemort had returned, he had managed to hit Harry with the Killing Curse a second time. Harry had survived only because the curse dislodged a fragment of Voldemort’s soul bound to his scar—a horcrux. But when it happened, Harry also met his birth parents in some Place between life and death, where they told him a few useful things—like about that vanishing room, apparently.

Sirius cracked up laughing. “Oh, Merlin, James has got to be loving this,” he said. “He didn’t know about there was a horcrux there, did he, Cub?”

“I’m pretty sure he would’ve mentioned it,” Harry said.

“Well, then, best accidental prank ever. Beating Voldemort from beyond the grave. Not gonna be able to top that.”

“So it was just sitting in there, Professor?” Harry asked. “My dad said that room was mainly a storage room.”

“Mainly, yes, but that is far from its primary function. Its formal name is the Room of Requirement, as I learnt by requesting it to produce the records of its own creation. It was designed by Rowena Ravenclaw as an auxiliary space for the school for any use that was needed, which the castle could not already provide, such as a formal ballroom or guest quarters for foreign dignitaries. It takes whatever form the user requires, hence the name. It can replicate any Conjurable object in the castle and store a seemingly unlimited amount of goods and deliver them up on demand.”

“My God, it can do all that?” Hermione said. “And no one knew about it?”

“It was not meant to be a secret. It saw some use by all four of the Founders in their day. When I asked for records of its use, it produced a jumble of scattered journal entries and other documents from that time period. However, the written record ends a mere century after the founding of the school, after the change of power when the Wizards’ Council was formed. Since then, with few exceptions, only the elves remembered it, and they used it only for storage.”

“Yes, but about the horcrux, Albus?” Remus got them back on track.

“Yes, when I realised what the Room of Requirement was, I requested Professor Grayson and some of the other staff to assist me in a thorough search. The number of valuable artifacts that have been lost within Hogwarts over the centuries is quite substantial. Truthfully, I expected the project to take all summer, at least. The storage room aspect of the Room is larger than the Great Hall, with most of the space filled by antique furniture. However, Professor Grayson and I were able to scan for dangerous magic very quickly. Imagine my surprise to find there was a horcrux within the walls of my own school.”

“But how could it have got there?” Emma said with concern.

“When he was in school?” Harry suggested.

“No, rather when he visited on the pretence of requesting the Defence Professorship in 1957,” Dumbledore replied. “I suspect that Voldemort wished to hide it somewhere he considered like a home to him. I spoke to the Grey Lady afterwards. Not many people know this, but she is actually—”

“Helena Ravenclaw,” Hermione said, to his surprise. “Bathilda Bagshot told us.”

“Of course. She said that the then-Tom Riddle spoke to her flatteringly when he was a student and eventually convinced her to divulge where she had hidden the diadem centuries earlier. I had no idea she had known where it was. I don’t think anyone suspected she could have known. Voldemort found it, corrupted it, and returned it to the castle during his one visit after he graduated, I suspect believing, not unreasonably, that no other wizard knew about the Room, and of course ignoring the elves.”

“So that’s five horcruxes destroyed,” Remus reasoned. “That only leaves Hufflepuff’s Cup and Voldemort’s pet snake.”

“And Voldemort himself, naturally.”

“Any leads on where the Cup is?” asked Dan.

“Alas, no, but I will continue searching.”

“If it’s in Riddle Manor or a Gringotts vault or something, we may be out of luck,” Remus said. “We might just have to kill Voldemort again to get access to it.”

“It is possible, though it would be preferable if that were not necessary. We can only hope for the best.”

With that matter resolved as far as they could at the moment, Hermione made a suggestion: “Professor, now that we know about the Room of Requirement, could we put it back to its intended use? If it can be larger than the Great Hall, it could be a ballroom large enough for all the students.”

“Or a swimming pool that more than just the prefects can use,” Harry chimed in.

Dumbledore chuckled. “Alas, while the idea is appealing, it will have to wait for the duration. If Voldemort were to learn we know about it, he would suspect we are hunting his horcruxes. Until we find all of them, or in the unfortunate event that he finds out anyway, any use we put it to will have to be secret.”

“Too bad. That would have been good to have,” Hermione said.

“Sadly, yes. But I had something else to discuss with you. Now that Voldemort has returned, it is time for the Order of the Phoenix to have an official headquarters and safe-house again. Only Sirius and Remus are full members here, but all of you will need to know where it is. Our Headquarters is hidden under a Fidelius Charm.”

That twigged Harry’s sixth sense at once. “Wait a minute, Professor,” he said, “doesn’t the Fidelius Charm have known weaknesses? Interferes with other wards? Single point of failure?” That was what had happened to his birth parents, after all.

“Indeed, which is why we are not using it for as a primary safe-house,” Dumbledore said. “After the unfortunate events of 1981, I was forced to rethink our strategies. Headquarters will be used only as a meeting place and a short-term safe-house, if needed. So long as we keep control of the Floo Network, strong wards that give time to escape are a better protection than the Fidelius Charm. Also, I myself am the Secret Keeper, so there is much less risk of infiltration.”

“We did that with Headquarters during the first war,” Sirius said, and he frowned and thought for a minute. “Since I can’t seem to remember where we met back then, Albus, am I right in thinking you’re using the same place?”

“You would be correct. Please listen carefully, all of you,” Dumbledore cleared his throat. “The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at Number One Morgan Circle in Mould-on-the-Wold.”

Sirius and Remus nodded in sudden recognition, but it meant nothing to the Grangers. Hermione, however, tilted her head in thought. “Mould-on-the-Wold?” she asked. “Isn’t that…”

“Yes, Hermione. My childhood home, though few people know that. You learnt it from Professor Bagshot, I assume?”

She nodded.

“I reacquired and refurbished the house in the last war when we needed a safe place to meet not associated with any of the Order members. To be honest, it was a good deal nicer than my family home in Godric’s Hollow. My father was unable to provide for us at the time we moved—but that is past. The residence in Mould-on-the-Wold is quite sufficient for our needs. Unfortunately, you will not be able to access it directly from here, but you will be able to go by Floo through Hogwarts.”

“We know how to get there,” Remus said. “We’ve done it enough times.”

“So are you expecting us to do anything for the Order at all?” Dan asked.

“No more than you are already doing, Mr. Granger,” Dumbledore replied, “staying vigilant and ensuring that your escape routes remain open. However, there are some Order operations you should know about. I have assigned a rotation of Order members to you as bodyguards. I will try to ensure that Sirius, Remus, or Miss Tonks accompany you as much as possible rather than others, but you will need a guard for all of your social outings.”

Harry and Hermione frowned at the news.

“Is there a problem?” Dumbledore asked.

“Only that we were thinking about a group date with a couple of our muggle friends in a couple weeks,” Hermione said.

“Dora can probably chaperon without causing too much trouble,” Sirius offered. “I doubt you want a man with grey hair tagging along.”

“I guess that’s okay,” Harry said. “We can always blame Mum and Dad for being paranoid.”

“Excuse me!” Emma said, but Harry just grinned at his parents.

“That’s what you get for having a couple of cheeky teenagers, Emma,” Sirius said with an even bigger grin. “Anything else, Albus?”

“Yes, one other thing. I believe Voldemort will not want to take too much action before he can learn the full content of the prophecy. He will want to eliminate the greatest threat to him before he overextends himself.” And since Harry was the one who was prophesied to be able to defeat Voldemort, he was the greatest threat. “Therefore, I am placing a guard rotation to keep watch outside the Department of Mysteries to try to slow him down if he tries to acquire it.”

Truthfully, that seemed rather odd to the Grangers. The only records of the prophecy were in the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic and in Dumbledore’s office at Hogwarts. Both were very well protected already. “Is that really necessary, Dumbledore?” Dan asked.

“If I am notified if and when Voldemort makes an attempt on the Ministry, I would be able to intercept him.”

“It sounds like you have limited resources, though. Could we do something else? Remove the prophecy record from the Ministry, maybe?”

Dumbledore considered this. “We would need Harry to do it in person,” he said. “That would require a lot of paperwork and would be almost impossible to hide from Voldemort’s spies…but I will consider it. It may be a better alternative, in the end.”

* * *

Far to the north in a heavily-warded manor house in Yorkshire, Lord Voldemort held council with his ally, La Pantera, the Dark Lady of Veracruz. La Pantera was a self-styled Aztec priestess and one of the few witches in the world who could count herself Voldemort’s equal in power and cruelty. She had designed and performed the ritual brought him back to life. And now, she was analysing the damage he had done to his soul.

“I still don’t see how you’re still sane, Voldemort,” La Pantera said as she waved his wand over him. She was also the only person who could call him “Voldemort” to his face and live. “If you’d asked me, I would’ve thought making a horcrux _by accident_ wasn’t even possible.”

“Is it important, Lady Pantera?” Voldemort hissed impatiently. “I _am_ still sane, and my method of multiple horcruxes has paid off.”

“Not as well as you think. You’ve made your soul unstable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Normally, a calloused soul is pretty resilient against dark magic. But because you made an unbalanced number of horcruxes, it’s left cracks. It’s like a cracked foundation. No matter how strong the stone is, moisture can still get in and damage it. And with as much as you sling around Unforgivable Curses, you’re at risk of degrading your soul over time in this condition.”

That did disturb Voldemort. Over the centuries, Dark Wizards had learnt that mistakes in making horcruxes could degrade the soul, causing them to slowly lose their sense of self, becoming insane, animalistic, or slipping into a coma. He had never made a mistake when he’d been able to complete the ritual, but this news was troubling. “Can you do anything for it?” he asked.

La Pantera thought for a minute. “Probably,” she said, “but it’ll take time. I’ll need to design a new ritual to either seal the cracks or patch them over. That will be a lot more speculative than the last ritual, so it might take a while—and I expect you to continue paying my fee. In the meantime, lay off the Unforgivables. Use your new fire powers and more neutral spells where you would have used Torture and Killing Curses before. That should keep most of the stress off your soul until I find a solution.”

As a bonus, La Pantera’s ritual had given Voldemort immunity to fire and a powerful affinity for the element. Voldemort considered her advice and deemed it acceptable. His followers would not suspect anything was amiss if he switched to using his fire affinity for a while.

“At least the horcrux explains how a Gryffindor like Potter managed to become a Parselmouth,” he mused, changing the subject. “That’s one more power he no longer has…” He paused, the word _power_ echoing in his head. Things began to fall into place. “The prophecy. Of course. I wonder…”

“What prophecy?” La Pantera said, growing alert at once. “You never mentioned a prophecy.”

“I did not consider it important for you to know until now…But perhaps your advice may be useful. In the spring of 1980, one of my Death Eaters informed me that a Seer met Dumbledore and gave him a prophecy: _‘The one with the power to destroy the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…’_ There was more, but my servant did not hear it. I searched carefully before determining that the prophecy most likely applied to the infant Harry Potter, which is why I pursued him.”

“ _Pendejo._ Classic trap. Self-fulfilling prophecy. You went after the _chico_ , made him a horcrux, gave him a protection of love, and created your own worst enemy. And you didn’t think this was important to mention?”

“I _thought_ that it was my own business.”

“Prophecies can throw off the whole calculation! I don’t suppose you ever found out what the rest of it was?”

“I did not. I had thought I would need to hear the rest of the prophecy to be assured of destroying Potter, but it’s obvious now. The horcrux that he possessed was ‘the power to destroy the Dark Lord’. If he had discovered the connection between us and used it against me, he could have found my other horcruxes. Now that it is gone, that threat is ended.”

“You’re a fool, Voldemort. You never trust to a single interpretation of a prophecy. They’re far too tricky. Double if you don’t actually know what they say.”

“Then what would you recommend?”

“You’re sure it’s about Potter?”

“Potter and the Longbottom boy were the only two who fit the description.”

“The only ones in Britain, you mean, but probable. But the _power_ —the power could be anything: the horcrux, love, arcane magic, followers. Even if you kill them both, it could be a legacy of some kind. A martyr to rally around can be more dangerous than a lone hero. But you shouldn’t waste your time on it, either. It’s too vague to act on directly. You’ll do best to build up your forces and act strategically. If you get an opportunity to learn the rest of the prophecy, take it, but remember that no prophecy will make you invincible.”

Voldemort considered this for a while. As much as the woman galled him, he could understand the logic. “Very well, Lady Pantera,” he said. “See to your next ritual, and I will see to returning my loyal followers and allies to my side.”


	2. A Night at the Cinema

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: They can take our lives, but they can never take…JK Rowling!

_POTTER: HE_ _’S BACK! HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS! DUMBLEDORE, GRAYSON CONFIRM!—The Daily Prophet_

_SHOCK CLAIM: BRITISH DARK LORD VOLDEMORT BACK FROM THE DEAD!—The New York Ghost_

_HARRY POTTER CLAIMS YOU-KNOW-WHO RETURNS!—Le Monde Magique, World Edition_

_IGOR KARKAROFF MISSING, DURMSTRANG DEPUTY HEAD CLAIMS ON THE RUN—Nordiska Nyheter (Translated)_

_THE DEAD RETURN? ABORIGINAL ELDERS SAY POSSIBLE—Corona Australis_

_LA PANTERA SIGHTED IN ENGLAND—El Universo (Translated)_

_NARGLES INVADE BRITAIN! DON_ _’T LET THEM STEAL YOUR CHILDREN!—The Quibbler_

* * *

_“Dad, it’s Death Eaters, not nargles."_

* * *

After some back and forth, the Grangers managed to schedule a group date with Paul and Tiffany towards the end of July. It was a more melancholy time than they’d hoped. With the impending war looming over them, it was hard just to be teenagers anymore, and despite trying harder than in previous years, they knew they would probably see even less of their muggle friends from now on.

Dan and Emma were also sceptical of the date since the film was _Braveheart_ , and they had enough war to deal with already, but it was supposed to be really good, and Harry was interested in it after learning about the magical side of that war in History of Magic, and they agreed that the children were mature enough for it, so they relented.

Neville and Luna arrived on the Knight Bus, escorted by Dora. She had rounded the two of them up rather than them trying to get to the Granger’s house on their own, or even with their guardians. It was safer and easier this way, and the Grangers didn’t want too many people knowing where they lived, anyway.

All three of them stuck out in the muggle world. Despite Harry and Hermione telling them to dress casual, Neville was wearing something that his grandmother probably thought was casual when she was his age, but in the muggle world made him look, honestly, like a dork: an oxford shirt and pinstripe trousers that came up past his navel—plus a travelling cloak for wizard flair. And Luna, while her clothes were basically muggle, looked more like a hippie. With radish earrings. Dora was no help, either. She kept her hair pink and dressed like a punk rocker.

Hermione sighed when she saw the three of them, and Harry said, “Well, it’s not like Paul and Tiffany think we’re normal, anyway.”

Hermione walked up to Neville and kissed him lightly. “It’s good to see you two,” she said. “But for the record, when we say ‘casual’, we mean something closer to what we wear on the weekends.”

“That’s what I told Gran, but she insisted on this,” Neville said.

Luna looked down at her psychedelic outfit. “Aren’t these casual muggle clothes?” she asked.

“Not in this decade, Luna,” Harry said, then he kissed her, too. “But we’ll make do.”

“Don’t I get a kiss, Harry?” Dora asked with a grin.

“ _You_ have no excuse,” Harry said. “Your dad’s a muggle-born. Also, the Weird Sisters are _not_ muggle friendly.” He shivered a little when he said the name for a completely unrelated reason.

Dora looked down at her t-shirt and grinned. “No one’s gonna notice,” she said. “Plenty of muggle bands have weirder names.”

“Just go with it, Harry. We need to go soon,” Hermione muttered.

“I think I’ll leave the cloak, if you don’t mind,” Neville said. He took his travelling cloak off and handed it to Emma, then after looking Harry up and down, he tried to nudge his trousers down without being too conspicuous about it. It helped a little.

“So your friends are meeting us at the theatre?” Luna asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. “Paul’s a year ahead of us, so he can drive already.”

“Er…Dora?” Hermione said nervously. “You _do_ know how to drive, right?”

“Course I do. Didn’t even have to Confund the examiner,” she said.

That didn’t instill any of the Grangers with confidence. Still, Dan and Emma let Dora borrow their car to drive the kids to the theatre. “Have fun out there,” Emma said. “Behave yourselves. And keep an eye out for trouble.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. G. I know all about _constant vigilance!_ ” Dora said.

“Okay you are gonna _really_ weird them out if you do that,” Harry told her.

Despite their reservations, Dora actually _was_ a good driver, and she got the four of them to the theatre in good time. With their wands tucked up their sleeves, all five of them, they got out in the car park and scanned around for Paul and Tiffany. Harry’s keen eyes spotted them at once, and he waved to them.

Harry’s and Hermione’s oldest friends walked over to them looking a bit wary. They hadn’t met Dora before, and they weren’t expecting a fifth wheel with the group. Hermione also noticed at once that Paul and Tiffany weren’t holding hands or even standing close together. Had their relationship gone south in the past year? The pair smiled, but it looked a little forced as the two muggles looked over their friends’ companions.

“Hey, guys, long time no see,” Harry said.

“Hey, Harry. Hey, Hermione,” Paul said. “I see you finally landed some dates.” Harry noticed he was staring at Luna.

“Yes, this is my girlfriend, Luna Lovegood,” Harry said. “Luna, these are our friends, Paul and Tiffany.”

Paul coughed in what might have been a snigger when he heard Luna’s last name. Harry suddenly realised it was a little too on-the-nose with her current 60’s outfit, but the two of them shook her hand cordially.

“And this is my boyfriend, Neville Longbottom,” Hermione introduced. “Oh, and this is Harry’s Cousin Dora. Mum and Dad wanted her to chaperon.”

As she’d expected, Paul and Tiffany didn’t seem too impressed with the new additions to the group. Tiffany just looked Neville up and down and raised a sceptical eyebrow at her. That really wasn’t fair, she thought. Neville was developing a pretty nice body, in her opinion. It was just that the clothes his Gran had picked for him didn’t do him justice. Paul was busy staring at Luna—for her strangeness, Hermione was sure, rather than her figure. It was hard not to stare at Luna, honestly, especially when you first met her, but that didn’t assuage Harry much. At least Dora seemed to pass muster to be “cool” enough for them.

“Who are the Weird Sisters?” Paul asked when he saw her shirt.

“Oh, they’re this obscure heavy metal band who do fantasy-themed songs,” she said without missing a beat.

Harry flinched again. He didn’t think he’d ever think of that band the same way again after what he’d heard at Hogwarts.

“Cool,” Paul replied. “So, how was your school year?”

All four Hogwarts students looked at each other uncomfortably. “Er…” Hermione started.

“We, uh…” Harry tried, but he couldn’t seem to make anything coherent come on.

Both of their friends frowned. “Dude, what’s wrong?” Paul said. “No jokes about magic and monsters? Nothing?”

Neville, Luna, and Dora all stared at Harry in surprise.

“Did something happen?” Tiffany said. “You didn’t flunk, did you?”

Harry and Hermione stared at each other and agreed with a look. “Maybe you should sit down,” she said.

Paul and Tiffany awkwardly sat on the hood of the car. “That bad?” Tiffany said. “What is it?”

“It…it didn’t go so well at school this year…” she said softly. “One of our friends was murdered.”

They gasped loudly. When he collected himself, Paul said, “You’re not kidding, are you?”

Harry shook his head sadly as Luna squeezed his hand for support. “I was there,” he said. “It was the last day of term. We were having this athletics competition, and I was in the final round. But there was this psycho woman—er…a fugitive from another…county, she was. And she…”

Hermione took it up: “It was just when they finished. Harry and Cedric had just tied for first, but then, this woman got into their room somehow and stabbed Cedric with a knife right on the spot.”

“She was fast,” Harry said. “I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. She tried to stab me, too. I barely got away. We called the police, but they couldn’t find her. They think she fled town, and she’s hiding out somewhere.”

“Oh my God,” Tiffany said. “That’s like a movie or something. That kind of stuff’s not supposed to happen in the real world, you know?”

“Believe me, I know,” Harry said. “Cedric was a good guy. He’d just got over this nasty illness to win, and he’d started up doing charity work with my godfather, and…” He paused for a moment. “And…you might think it sounds silly, but…Our old cat died right after we got back, too.”

“It’s not silly…” Tiffany said reflexively, but without any real conviction.

“You know how much Harry loves cats,” Hermione reminded them, “and Rowena…I think we told you, she belonged to his birth parents.”

“Did she? I think I’d forgotten,” Tiffany said. “I mean, she must have been Harry’s age or so.”

“They were the same age,” Harry said softly.

“What?”

“Cedric and Rowena. They were both seventeen.”

“Oh…”

“And now, everyone’s saying Rowena lived a good, long life, but Cedric was cut down in his prime,” he said absently. “Something just…doesn’t seem right about that…”

Luna looked up at him and sighed: “Oh dear. The aquavirius maggots are getting to you again, Harry. They’re making you excessively melancholy.”

 _Everyone_ stared at Luna at that.

“Aquavirius maggots?” Paul said.

“They latch onto you with tentacles of thought and try to strangle your mind. They’re very nasty. Thoughts can leave the deepest scars of all, you know.” She took Harry’s hands and stood on her toes to whisper in his ear, “And it can’t be dementors, or we’d all feel it,” which led Harry, not for the first time, to question how much of her own stories Luna actually believed.

“I…I’m pretty sure that…that doesn’t make any sense at all,” Paul said.

“Of course it does—” Luna started, but Hermione cut her off.

“Don’t question her, Paul. You’ll only walk away confused.”

“Yeah, so…” Tiffany said uneasily. “We’re sorry; we had no idea any of that was happening…And you still wanted to come out on a group date with us?”

“Well, sure, we never get the chance to see you,” Harry said. “Let’s go.”

They all started off towards the cinema door, but Luna spoke up again: “You don’t mind joining us, do you?”

“Of course not,” Tiffany said. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“I know this was meant to be a more romantic outing, but if you’re more comfortable, you could sit with Dora—EEP!” Luna squeaked as Hermione elbowed her in the side hard.

 _And there come the uncomfortable truths,_ Harry thought.

Paul and Tiffany stared at her awkwardly. “We, er…” Tiffany started.

“It’s not like that, it’s just…” Paul said haltingly.

“It’s complicated,” they said together, then glanced at each other.

There was a lengthy silence. Finally, Dora said, “Let’s just get to the film.”

In retrospect, watching _Braveheart_ was probably a bad idea. To start with, Harry and Luna weren’t technically old enough to watch it (although they both had permission from their parents), but the woman at the box office didn’t check their IDs, so Dora didn’t have to Confund her. But the rating was well earned, more so than they expected, with the graphic depictions of rape, murder, and people stabbing each other in the face.

Tiffany took it the hardest. She was no pushover, but she wasn’t used to war movies and couldn’t take the sight of that much blood. She and Paul had sat on opposite sides from Dora, but she actually switched seats when the battle started so she could hide her face in his chest. Harry and Hermione had a feeling things were about to get even more “complicated” for them after this.

Harry thought he would be mostly okay watching the film, but he was wrong. He’d seen battle, bloodshed, and death, sure, but he was unprepared to see the soldiers trying to rape William Wallace’s wife. He felt sick at the sheer disgustingness of the scene, and he couldn’t help but think of Luna when he saw it, which only made it worse. (He thought of Hermione a little, but Hermione would’ve literally left the soldiers in pieces if she had to, and she wouldn’t need a wand to do it.)

Fortunately, Luna seemed to handle it well. She clutched his arm tightly, but she held steady and seemed to be comforting him as much as she was herself. “It’s okay, Harry,” she whispered in his ear. “We know who wins in the end.” He thought that was a difficult way to see something so brutal, but that was Luna. Both she and Neville had seen Harry and the other champions in mortal peril in the Tournament with no small amount of blood, so he was less worried about that, but he was surprised she could be anywhere close to calm witnessing this. Neville wasn’t. He practically yelled, “Holy crap!” at the sight. He admitted afterwards he considered walking out of the theatre.

When Harry glanced at Dora, he saw a look of disgust on her face, too, but she was an Auror, so she’d seen worse. He was pretty sure he saw her mouth, “You go, girl!” when Wallace’s wife bit the soldier’s face. Hermione, however, was in tears. Harry could guess as the film went on that they were both thinking of the war to come and wondering how much of the like of that staged violence they would see for real.

Neville repeated his exclamation when the Scots exposed themselves to the English army. Hermione could understand that (though she later thought it was ironic that he got confused when the Prince Edward’s cousin called the prince a sodomite). Neville’s Gran might have a stroke if she saw it. Sir Robin Greengrass had certainly never mentioned anything like that, and Luna whispered to Harry, “I’m surprised they let them show that. The Diagonal Theatre would be overrun by an angry mob if they tried it.”

“That’s why muggle films have ratings,” he whispered back. “So they can tell what ages they’re appropriate for.”

“Hm, that’s a good idea.”

Alas, the story could not end as well as that battle. The betrayal was awful when it came, even knowing what would happen: Robert the Bruce’s betrayal of Wallace, Robert’s father’s betrayal of both of them. Harry could feel it. This must have been how his parents had felt when they realised Pettigrew had betrayed them. He finally cracked when Wallace told Hamish how he’d prayed for a home and a family, but it was worth nothing without his freedom. He cried, knowing what would happen to the man. He cried, thinking of his own death sentence that he had narrowly escaped a month ago without even knowing it, when the horcrux was exorcised from his skull. He cried, thinking of the war that was coming.

Luna held onto him, wrapping a slim arm around his shoulders. “It’ll be okay, Harry,” she whispered to him. “You’ll have those things. We’ll be ready this time.”

“I’m _not_ ready, Luna,” he whispered back. “I’m fourteen, and I’ve nearly died five times already. I’m…I’m scared—”

“We’re all scared, Harry, but you’ve fought _him_ and lived. You defied him to his face. You’re stronger than all of us. You can make it.”

“Th-thank you,” he said, steadying himself. He thanked Merlin again that she was there for him like this.

The film finally ended with Wallace’s execution. They hadn’t anticipated the movie running three hours, either, which only made it all the more draining. Harry shivered. Seeing the crowd jeering Wallace on the scaffold reminded him far too much of the Death Eaters laughing while Voldemort Crucioed him. When they finally got out of the theatre, all of the group looked a little shell-shocked, Harry most of all.

“Maybe _Braveheart_ wasn’t such a good idea,” Paul said. Tiffany looked shaken, but she was standing on her own. Neville was scowling, though, and gripping Hermione’s hand tightly, while Luna was subtly supporting Harry.

“Next time, we’re going to see _Pocahontas_ ,” Hermione said firmly.

“Better than this one, I hope?” Neville asked, to which she nodded vigorously.

Harry said nothing.

“Harry, mate, you okay?” Paul asked. “You look kinda…shook up. Too much that…? Sorry, that probably wasn’t the best movie for all of you right now…”

Harry met his eyes and managed to force a smile. “Would you believe me if I said we met a ghost who fought in the service of Edward Longshanks?” he asked.

“Harry!” Dora yelped in horror.

But Paul smiled back weakly: “Hey, there’s the Harry we know.”

Hermione quickly whispered to Dora about how Harry would make a joke of his “adventures”, and she relaxed and joined in a bit. “Oh, right. Picked the wrong side, though,” she growled. “That Longshanks was awful. ‘We have reserves?’ Bloody hell, even You-Know-Who wouldn’t do that.”

“You-Who-Know?” Tiffany said.

Dora squeaked at making the same slip she’d just admonished Harry for.

“Er, the villain in a play we saw,” Hermione saved her. “Long story.”

“I do enjoy historical plays,” Luna quickly changed the subject, “even when they change a few things. This was a bit much, but it was interesting to see the history reenacted…The face paint was a good idea. It would keep the nargles away. Do you think the original Wallace did that?”

Everyone stared at her. “Um…nargles?” Paul said.

“Oh, yes. They usually only steal your socks from the wash, but they can be very dangerous in battle. It helps to disguise your face to hide from them.”

Paul gave them all a look that said _Is she for real?_ But he held his tongue for the moment, and they wandered back to the cars. It was dark, and all of the magicals were wary, but their two muggle friends didn’t seem to notice them scanning the car park for trouble. They still weren’t holding hands, but walked on either side of Dora. And as for Dora, Harry and Hermione could tell she had been watching the entrances to the theatre the whole time despite enjoying the movie, her wand at the ready in her quick-draw holster. She wouldn’t fully relax until they were all home.

They didn’t plan to go anywhere else afterwards. They were even more worried about security this late at night. They were probably being paranoid; they were in a muggle community, and almost no one knew where they were, but as Moody would say, _constant vigilance!_ They parted quickly, but before they did, Paul called Harry aside for a private chat.

“So, your girlfriend, Hermione’s boyfriend?” he said. “They both go to your school?”

“Yeah. They’re both pretty cool,” Harry said. “Neville’s my roommate, and Luna’s my other roommate’s neighbour at home, so we already knew them well.”

“Huh.” Paul looked over at Neville and Hermione. “Neville seems like a good bloke. They seem a lot alike.”

“Hmm, yeah, in some ways,” Harry agreed. “His parents were actually friends with mine.”

“That’s cool.” He then looked over at Luna, who was wandering aimlessly around the car park and humming to herself. “And Luna? Where’d you find that one?”

Harry didn’t particularly like his tone, but he answered, “I found the older kids picking on her when she was a first year. I told them to knock it off. We’ve been friends ever since. I asked her to the Yu—er, Christmas dance last year because she gets me better than most of the girls in school.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not.”

Paul sighed and looked at Luna again. “Harry, mate, let me give you some advice as someone with a little more experience. You need to steer clear of _that_ one.”

“What?” Harry said harshly, glaring back at him.

“Hear me out, mate. She has crazy eyes.”

That stopped Harry short. “Huh?” he said.

“Crazy eyes!”

“What are crazy eyes?”

“When you look at her eyes, you can see white all the around the irises.”

Well, that was true. She always had that wide-eyed look about her, but he’d never paid it much attention. “So?”

“ _So_ that’s a danger sign that she’s crazy!”

Harry hissed automatically. “What do you mean, crazy?”

“You know, like she’ll go psycho on you one day and attack you.”

“ _What?_ ” Harry repeated. Luna had been called Loony for a lot of different reasons, but no one had ever called her dangerous. They usually underestimated her, to be honest. “I don’t know what you’re smoking, Paul, but Luna doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body.”

Paul shook his head. “No, that’s what’s so dangerous. It’s always the quiet ones. Look, Harry, I know you’ve been having a rough time, and I can tell you like her a lot, but you need to hear this. She’s got the crazy eyes, _and_ you see how she dresses—”

“She’s _eccentric_ —”

“And all that weird stuff she talks about?”

“It’s not her fault her dad’s a tabloid writer?”

“I’m telling you, Harry. A girl like that, maybe she’ll be fine, but maybe she’ll stab you in the back, or you’ll wind up with a stalker.”

“STOP IT!” Harry yelled. Everyone in the car park jumped and stared at him. “Just shut up right now, or I’ll ca—” He caught himself. His fingers were crackling with magic, but he couldn’t call Paul out for a duel. He was a muggle! Merlin, it had finally happened, he thought. He was more a part of the wizard culture than the muggle one. “Yes, Luna’s _weird_ ,” he said. “Hell, you know how those other kids picked on her? They started calling her Loony Lovegood within a month of starting school, and I had to be the one to tell them off. But being weird doesn’t mean she’s crazy. She’s just as sane as I am. She just refuses to let what people think of her get to her—but I can tell it does, so back off. And she’s not dangerous. When the older kids were stealing her stuff, she wouldn’t even go to a teacher until I did for her. And she’s not a stalker, either. In fact, I asked her to the ball because she’s the one girl I know who acts the _least_ like a stalker. I’ve already _got_ a stalker at school, and it’s not Luna. Luna’s always been really nice and respectful to me, even when…” But he couldn’t tell Paul all about the things he’d gone through at school. Wow, this was hard.

Paul must have interpreted his silence as being about Cedric because he backed down at once: “Whoa, whoa, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I can tell you like each other a lot, it’s just—”

“Don’t go assuming things you don’t know, Paul,” Harry cut him off. “That’s how Luna’s trouble started in the first place…and a lot of mine, come to think of it.” He turned and walked away without another word, leaving a friendship very strained behind him.

They made it home without incident, but Harry especially wasn’t keen to face his parents after all that, though he couldn’t get out of it.

“So, how did it go?” Dan asked.

He shook his head. “Bad idea.”

“Uh-oh. What’s happened?”

“The movie was worse than we expected,” Hermione said. “I mean, not _bad_. It was well-done. But violent—it hit too many nerves.”

Emma sighed: “I told you it would be too much for them, Dan.”

“We wanted to go, Mum,” Hermione defended her father. “It was our mistake. We just didn’t know what to expect.”

“You still should have known better,” Emma said.

“Maybe, but—”

“But their old enough to make their own decisions, Emma,” Dan said. “Harry’s practically fifteen, and Hermione will be sixteen soon. As much as we don’t want to admit it, both of our children are mature enough to decide about seeing a film for themselves.”

Emma sighed heavily, but she couldn’t really argue with that. However, she turned to Luna and said, “Are _you_ okay, Luna? You’re the youngest.”

“I’ll be alright, Mrs. Granger,” she said calmly. “Harry just needed some extra support.”

“Harry?” she said worriedly, raising an eyebrow at him.

“It was…hard to watch,” he muttered. “And it wasn’t just the movie. I…Paul and Tiffany aren’t getting along, and I didn’t get along with Paul, either.”

“Oh…That’s too bad.”

“Yeah…Good night, Luna. You and Neville should really get home.” He kissed his girlfriend—very chastely, since his parents were watching. It wasn’t until she was safely away with Neville and Dora that he asked the question that was eating at him. “Mum, Luna’s not crazy, is she?”

“What?” his mum said in surprise. “Why would you think that, Harry?”

“Paul said it. He said I shouldn’t be dating her because she’s crazy. I got really mad at him…I nearly challenged him to a duel before I caught myself. And half her classmates at school think she’s crazy, too. But she’s not, is she? She’s just…”

“Eccentric?” Emma said. “Look, Harry, we’d be lying if we said we hadn’t thought Luna might need counselling of some sort. We all know she’s…different…And, frankly, she might have some kind of condition that she needs help with, but that doesn’t make her ‘crazy’, and it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be dating her. We’d have to be blind not to see that you’re good for each other—and that’s not easy for us to say because you’re so young.”

Harry’s face fell: “So you _do_ think she needs help.”

She shook her head: “We can’t say that for sure. She would need a professional diagnosis. But I do think it might help her.”

“Harry, if it really worries you a lot, we ought to have a DSM lying around somewhere,” Dan spoke up. “But I’d urge you to be very careful with it and consult us before you try to decide anything. Unprofessional diagnosis isn’t good for anyone.”

* * *

Though he took his father’s warning to heart, Harry read through their old DSM-III-R the next day, looking for anything that fit Luna’s particular brand of quirkiness. He found one: schizotypal personality disorder. It was apparently a low-level form of schizophrenia characterised by inappropriate emotional reactions, eccentric behaviour, bizarre beliefs, and unconventional thought processes. It _almost_ fit. Except…another characteristic symptom was antisocial behaviour, and Luna was very well-adjusted around people who actually respected her and kept an open mind about what she said.

No, he insisted to himself. She wasn’t crazy. She was just delightfully odd, and he wouldn’t have her any other way.


	3. A Meeting of Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling opened a book. Something which has—in all my years on this planet—never been a particularly dangerous activity.

_3 July 1995_

A chime sounded in Albus Dumbledore’s office, and a woman’s voice sounded, speaking to the gargoyle outside: “Can you tell the Headmaster that Amelia Bones wants to talk to him?”

Albus raised an eyebrow and looked to his guest, who was examining Fawkes carefully. “Our Director of Magical Law Enforcement,” he said. “Shall I let her in?”

“By all means,” his guest said.

Albus called out, _“Introi,”_ and the door opened.

Amelia Bones climbed the stairs to the Headmaster’s Office. She saw the Chief Warlock sitting at his desk, but she was surprised to see another guest there as well, and not a Briton, either. He stood not by the desk, but off to the side, where he was stroking Albus’s pet phoenix and muttering in a language she didn’t recognise. “Good morning, Albus,” she ventured.

“Good morning, Amelia,” Albus replied cheerfully. “Allow me to introduce you to Master Shomihkasi, better known as Old Coyote.”

Old Coyote. She recognised the name—a famous American wandmaker, if she wasn’t mistaken. She wondered what he was doing so far from home. “A pleasure to meet you, Master Coyote,” she said.

“Likewise, Madam Bones,” he replied with a slight bow.

She regarded Albus’s guest more closely. He was an old man—perhaps not as old as Albus, but his skin was deeply furrowed, and he had long, white hair braided in a ponytail down his back. His eyes were silver with the same gleam she’d always seen from Ollivander. However, unlike Ollivander, his robes were quite unremarkable except for some leather trim.

He also wielded a staff. That was the most distinctive thing about him, actually. It looked a little like Mad-Eye Moody’s staff, but it looked far older. Amelia’s keen eye could tell _this_ staff had not been carved by human hands, but was a branch broken directly from the tree. It was a pale, orange-tinted wood with a deep grain that would have blended in with the banded rocks of the American West. It wasn’t straight, but bent and twisted by time, and not varnished, but, if she didn’t miss her guess, polished by wind and dust over probably centuries. And it was probably extremely powerful.

“So what brings you to Britain?” she asked him, angling for a bit more information. She was coming to realise Albus had a bad habit of not telling her everything she needed to know.

“Word has reached the International Confederation of Wizards of the recent trouble here,” Old Coyote said, still stroking Fawkes.

“The ICW?” she said in surprise. “They’re getting involved already?”

“Not with your Voldemort. That is still an internal matter. However, the report of Meztli Ocelotl is very troubling.”

“Ocelotl? You mean La Pantera? The Mexican?”

“Yes. If she is operating outside her native country, and especially outside the Americas, that makes her an ICW matter.”

“The ICW wishes to send a police mission to Britain to apprehend La Pantera,” Albus explained. “It will need time to set up. They probably will not be here until mid-August. But I expect that Old Coyote will be involved.”

“A police mission?” Amelia said. “But if the ICW comes here…this could get a lot bigger than Britain very fast.” And she didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“I agree it could cause problems,” Albus said. “However, it is out of our hands. In the meantime, I asked Old Coyote to make a special visit, if he was able, to consult on a related subject.”

“And what is that?”

“The matter of Voldemort’s wand.”

“His wand? What about it?”

“Wands can tell a lot about a person,” Albus replied. “For example, Voldemort’s original wand was made of yew, a wood known for its distinctive power over life and death. Its core was a phoenix feather, but what few people know is that we have the phoenix who gave that feather with us. It was Fawkes’s feather.”

“You’re joking!” Amelia exclaimed, but it was clear he wasn’t. “ _Your_ phoenix? I know any wand can go dark, Albus, but how do you explain _that?_ ”

“Phoenixes are complex creatures, Amelia. They are regarded as creatures of light, but this is too simplistic. They are creatures of _fire_ , which burns as well as cleanses. It is closer to say they are creatures of cosmic order, transcending life and death—against the Dark, yes, but not for the same reason we are.”

Amelia wasn’t sure what to make of that, but it seemed like it ought to be moot. “But that wand was destroyed,” she said. “Why does it matter now?”

“The wand chooses the wizard,” Old Coyote cut in. “Understand the wand, and you will understand the wizard, even if he no longer holds it. The wizards that Fawkes chose for his feathers are special, and from him, I can learn much about _both_ of them.”

Amelia was alert at once. “Both?”

Albus smiled: “As I said, Amelia, phoenixes are creatures of cosmic order. Fawkes gave Garrick Ollivander _two_ feathers. The first went to Tom Riddle, now Voldemort, while the second found its way into a holly wand in the hands of Harry Potter.”

She leaned back in her seat. “Potter,” she whispered. “I thought there was something special about him, but this—this makes him the opposite of You-Know-Who in some way?”

“Opposite, yes, and marked, in a way, as his equal. Not in magical power, of course. Harry would need a lifetime to catch up with Voldemort in that regard. But in force of will, yes he is. I think he had already shown that.”

“It is a curious dichotomy,” said Old Coyote. “Phoenixes are rarely so conspicuous in their choices.”

Amelia was still sceptical that this was of practical use. “You-Know-Who’s wand was still destroyed, though. Speaking of which, do you have any idea whose wand was he using?”

“According to Harry, he acquired a new one. He did not get a good look, but he said it was intricately carved, and its handle looked to be made of finger bones.”

“That sounds like Coquihani’s work,” Old Coyote said, leaving Fawkes and approaching the desk.

“Who?” Amelia asked.

“Chicomostoc Coquihani. La Pantera’s personal wandmaker. I’m sure Voldemort wouldn’t settle for less than the best. I don’t know enough to guess the wood, but I’m sure he’ll have used a thunderbird feather—which could be interesting.”

“How so?” Albus asked.

“The thunderbird is _not_ merely an American phoenix, Albus. Even many wandmakers make that mistake. But where the phoenix is a creature of cosmic order, the thunderbird is a creature of chaos. Perhaps it will help him. Since Voldemort’s destructive nature is a dark reflection of the phoenix, it might be an even better fit than his old wand.”

“Harry said he claimed it was.”

“Just what we need,” Amelia grumbled. “Albus, I came here to talk to you about the Order of the Phoenix.”

Albus flinched in surprise. “You know about that?” he said.

“I’ve known about it for fourteen years,” she said dryly. “You think I wouldn’t find out everything I could about the cause my brother gave his life for?”

He nodded his assent. “Once again you have shown why you are such an asset to your department, Amelia. What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what you’re up to. You may be legally allowed to run your own little club because you’re the Chief Warlock, but I’m not going to ignore what you’re doing. I won’t bother asking who’s in it, but I reserve the right to order any of my people to pull out if it becomes a problem.”

“I understand completely.”

“Good. Now, I want an accurate tactical assessment of your forces. We need to work together if we want to win this, don’t we? How many are you? What training do you have? What are you actually doing?”

“In order, there are a couple dozen of us,” Dumbledore said, “but we are working on recruiting more. I will tell you that we have three active duty Aurors and several others with formal combat training. Others members are involved for their other skills—a Healer we can go to without going through official channels, for example—or else for their connections. As for what we are doing, that is a bit more complicated. We are tracking the movements of known and suspected Death Eaters, trying to interfere with their recruitment and other plans in ways that the DMLE might not be able to. We are maintaining a network of safe houses and other resources apart from the Ministry so that they are less likely to be compromised. We are similarly ensuring that Harry Potter and other key figures continue to be protected discreetly.” He chose to leave off the watch they were keeping on the Department of Mysteries.

“No fighting?” Amelia asked shrewdly.

“Not yet, but we must be prepared for anything, of course.”

“Of course. Well, it’s not as bad as I feared. _You_ may be a soldier, Albus, but remember you’re not leading an army. And there’s one other thing you haven’t mentioned yet.” She glanced significantly at Old Coyote.

“You may speak freely in front of me as an ICW representative,” the American said. “I am sworn to secrecy. In fact, I feel I can offer you a suggestion or two of my own.”

“Oh? Alright, what is it?”

“Relocate Garrick Ollivander someplace safer _immediately_.”

Amelia did a double take. “What?”

“Ollivander has a shop in London, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’d be very easy for Voldemort to kidnap or kill, wouldn’t he?”

She was starting to see where this was going. “Easier than most,” she said.

“Ollivander is the best wandmaker in Europe,” Old Coyote said. “You’re protecting all of your strategic resources, aren’t you? The Ministry? Hogwarts? The hospital? Think about it and tell me which _people_ in magical Britain are indispensable.”

She thought about it. The list was short. “Albus is,” she said. “Not Fudge. Merlin knows there are better choices out there. It’s a miracle he’s been so supportive thus far. Not me or Scrimgeour, although I’d feel better if I could reactivate Moody and transfer one of the Monroes into my department. Croaker might be, but he’d be a better judge of his own department. Outside the Ministry, Harry Potter, just for the symbolic value…Maybe someone like Newt Scamander, who can handle magical creates and collect rare potions ingredients like no one else…but you’re right. Ollivander is a linchpin of our society. Everyone knows him, he controls a solid majority of the wand market, and if we lost him, there’d be no one as good to replace him.”

“Then I strongly suggest you move him someplace safer,” Old Coyote repeated. “Hogwarts perhaps.”

At that, Albus spoke up. “But then how would the first years buy their wands, Coyote?” he said.

“Ask them to purchase their wands when they arrive here, Albus. Perhaps even make a ceremony of it. It’s a longstanding tradition at the American schools. They were required to do it that way for nearly two centuries under Rappaport’s Law, and it always worked out well.”

“Interesting…” Albus considered. “We would not have time during the Sorting. But term starts on a Friday this year. We could make a weekend of it. Yes, I will suggest it to the Board.”

“But the first years aren’t Ollivander’s only customers,” Amelia said.

“He has a family, does he not?” Old Coyote said. “Ask them to set up a shop in Hogsmeade. That way, they’ll be closer to safety.”

“Fine. I’ll talk to them about it. But Albus, the other thing I wanted to talk to you about…The master file on You-Know-Who contains several very interesting prophecies.”

Albus’s eyes widened a fraction. “You know about those?” he said.

“Of course I do! Are you _sure_ you’re not taking on too much work? You ought to know the procedure. All prophecies with potential national security implications are reported to the Minister and the Chief Warlock. Minister Bagnold had a top-secret file assembled with everything we know about You-Know-Who, just in case he ever came back—based on _your_ word that he would someday. Exactly four people have access to that file: you, me, Croaker, and Fudge. If you want to worry about someone knowing, worry about the Minister.”

“Pardon me, Amelia, I was merely surprised that you knew such extensive detail,” Albus saved himself, though in reality, that hit closer to home than he wanted to admit. “Surely, you can’t be surprised that several prophecies have appeared around such an influential figure as Lord Voldemort?”

“Hmpf. I suppose not, but let’s clear the air, anyway. The first prophecy in the file is labelled S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D., Dark Lord and— _question mark—_ Harry Potter—February of 1980.”

“If you’ve read the prophecy, you will know that the question mark is no longer needed. It clearly refers to Harry Potter.”

“Does Potter know?”

“He does, and he has for some time.”

“And how does he feel about it?”

“He is understandably concerned, but he feels that with the right support behind him, he can make it through the coming war.”

“And the power the Dark Lord knows not?”

Albus smiled at this. “Such things are never certain, but I have always believed that love is the most powerful magic of all.”

“Love?” Old Coyote interrupted. “Interesting interpretation, Dumbledore.”

“You disagree, Master Coyote?” Amelia asked him.

“Not necessarily, but I wouldn’t rely on it, either. The fact that the boy became an animagus so young looks at least as promising.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now, the second prophecy was S.P.T. to M.I.M., which Croaker informs me was fulfilled by You-Know-Who’s return. But imagine my surprise when he told me that a _third_ relevant prophecy appeared just last week—and this one labelled with a _new_ Seer’s initials, at that: C.F.C. to H.J.P., Dark Lord, _question mark_ Defier, and the _Weird Sisters?_ Am I being daft, or did someone just prophecy that Harry Potter would defeat You-Know-Who with the power of music?”

Old Coyote’s eyebrows rose, and he turned to Dumbledore. “I have a feeling there’s a very amusing story behind this, Albus,” he said.

“Nothing so dramatic,” he replied. “The day after Voldemort’s return, Harry Potter sent one of my students to me with word that she had made a prophecy in his presence. The girl in question had good Divination marks, but had never shown Seer tendencies before. However, she _is_ the great-great-granddaughter of the Chinese Seer Fan Tong, and these things _can_ sometimes skip three generations. Miss Chang was also the girlfriend of Cedric Diggory, who was murdered in the incident, so her grief likely activated her gift. Amelia is right that the prophecy _appears_ to link Voldemort’s downfall to our most popular musical group but I strongly suspect there is a deeper interpretation.”

“What was the prophecy?” Old Coyote asked.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and recited it: _“The Weird Sisters will be reunited before the summer dies. The Dark Lord regathers his forces, more terrible than ever before. The one who thrice defied him stands before a high mountain to oppose him. But before the leaves begin to turn, the Weird Sisters will gather together once more in his aid, and he will call new allies to his side, for Mars will reign over Europe. The Weird Sisters will unite before summer dies.”_

* * *

_29 July 1995_

“It can’t be the band,” Harry insisted. “There’s no way I’m going to beat Voldemort with a bunch of rock stars. Besides Cho’s prophecy said the Weird Sisters will _re_ -unite, and they haven’t broken up, have they?”

“It could just mean reuniting for a gig after a break,” Remus suggested. “That’s the problem with prophecies. They’re almost infinitely flexible. Not that I think it’s the most likely explanation, mind, but we can’t discount it.”

“I think it has something to do with Macbeth,” Harry says. “You know, the Weird Sisters? That’s where the band got the name, wasn’t it?”

“Kirley Duke came up with the name,” Sirius said. “He was a half-blood Ravenclaw—yeah, I know, he doesn’t seem the type. But he read up on muggle literature in school. The Weird Sisters isn’t the name in the wizarding version of the story.”

“What is it in the wizarding version?” asked Hermione.

“The _Wyrd_ Sisters. Wyrd. Fate. ‘Weird’ is a mistranslation.”

“But Cho gave the prophecy to _me_ ,” Harry countered. “Professor Dumbledore says Seers give prophecies to those with the power to influence them. Shouldn’t my understanding of it have some importance?”

“But you haven’t got it right either, Harry,” Emma cut in. The word in Shakespeare isn’t ‘Weird’ _or_ ‘Wyrd’. It’s ‘Wayward’.”

“It is?”

“Yes. In the original printing, it is. People only emended it to Weird later.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Your father and I do, Harry. You know how much we read Shakespeare.”

“Harry, you have a First Folio in your vault,” Hermione pointed out. “Why don’t we just _check?_ ”

* * *

“Well, it looks like we were _all_ wrong,” Harry said as he thumbed through the First Folio in his Gringotts vault. “The word is written in one place as ‘weyward’, with an ‘e’, and in another as ‘weyard’. What do those words mean, Mum?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure if they even appear outside of Shakespeare.”

“Well, then, we’re back to square one, then,” Harry grumbled as he collected some galleons for his shopping.

“Not quite,” Sirius said. “I still think you should talk to the Weird Sisters, just in case. I can call up Kirley Duke. He’s Catriona McCormack’s son, so you already have a connection.”

“If you want, Sirius, but I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Oi! I resemble that remark!”

Dan cleared his throat. “Are you done here, Harry, then?” he asked.

“Just let me look at the rest of the books…I want to take the _Daemonologie,_ ” Harry said. “It might have something useful.”

“The witch-hunting manual?” Remus said sceptically.

“Hey, we’re hunting dark witches and wizards, aren’t we?”

“Fair point. Just be careful with it. I don’t know what dark magic might be in the original edition.”

“Got it—oh my God!”

“What?” His family jumped.

“Sorry. I just noticed this book. _Rare Arcane Faunae of Western Europe_. I’ve had it for years, and I’ve never noticed it.”

“Noticed what?” Hermione asked.

“The author.” He pointed below the title. It read _Livia Lovegood_.

“One of Luna’s ancestors?”

“I bet it is.” He started flipping through the pages. He’d never really looked before, but _Rare Arcane Faunae_ was a beautiful illustrated tome where real creatures like unicorns and dragons were described alongside probably-fictitious ones like Umgubular Slashkilters… _hopefully_ fictitious ones, he corrected mentally, given that some of them really did look disturbingly Lovecraftian. “Hey, look at this,” he said when he found a picture of a small, green fairy-like creature. “Nargles!”

“It has a picture of them?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah. I’m taking this one, too. Maybe I’ll be able to understand what Luna’s talking about.”

Hermione took a closer look at the book and had to start questioning a few things. “Maybe I should read it after you,” she said.

The Grangers and their extended family walked back out into Diagon Alley, still thinking about the implications of the prophecy. That Cho was a Seer had been a shock to them all. Harry had actually dated her for a few months before she’d got together with Cedric, and she’d never shown any indication of it. The prophecy itself would have been pretty clear, except that everyone involved was baffled as to whom the Weird Sisters referred. Unfortunately, they were no closer to understanding that than before.

School shopping was less fun this year than it used to be. People hurried on their way a little more in Diagon Alley and looked over their shoulders frequently. The Grangers weren’t much inconvenienced by the need for constant security because they’d always needed someone to fend off Harry’s admirers, but the mood was darker than it had been in previous years, and not even the fact that both Harry and Hermione had received new prefect badges with their supply lists could raise it. The prize seemed a little bit hollow next to the much more serious problems around them.

They bought quills, parchment, ink, and potions ingredients they would need for the year. Harry also needed his robes lengthened a couple more inches. Hermione admitted that hers still fit after much blushing when Emma asked if they were still okay around the chest and hips. The interesting change this time was the unusually long book list, at least for fifth year. Most classes only ordered new textbooks for first, third, and sixth years, but there were four new books on the list this year:

 

_Fifth-Year Students Will Require:_

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 5)_ by Miranda Goshawk

 _Modern Magical History_ by Peter Spavin

 _The Duellist_ _’s Handbook_ by Bastia the Corsican

 _Memoirs of the Late War Against Grindelwald_ by Arminius Esterhazy

_Dress robes for formal events._

 

“Dress robes again,” Hermione pointed out. “Maybe they took our advice on holding another ball.”

“Remus, do you know anything?” Harry asked their History of Magic teacher.

Remus smiled and said, “No comment.”

“I see you changed the history textbook,” Emma observed.

“Not exactly, Emma. That’s just for fifth year,” he replied. “They’re supposed to learn modern history and civics this year. Spavin’s not great but he’s decent. Unfortunately, there aren’t really any magical civics books. But hey, the O.W.L. scores last year were higher than they’ve ever been since Binns died.”

“They were? That’s fantastic, Remus!”

“It was a pretty low bar, honestly,” he countered. “The course is still a long way from the international standards. And I’m still looking for a replacement for Bagshot’s _History_. With what I learnt last year, it’s obviously outdated, and the scholarship isn’t as good as she always made it out to be, but she’s been the standard for so long that there’s not much else out there.”

“The Defence books look interesting,” Harry said. “Kind of different from what we’ve had before. Do you know who the new Defence teacher is?”

Remus smiled again and repeated, “No comment.”

They bought their books and everything else they needed, but there was one other thing Harry and Hermione were interested in: extra wands. It wasn’t uncommon for Aurors to carry spares, since most wizards couldn’t do wandless Summoning. The times ahead looked dangerous and they agreed it was time to go the extra mile in being prepared. An extra wand to give them one on each arm would be a good start, they thought.

But Remus told them, “Yeah…about that…”

 

_Ollivanders_

_Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._

_Ollivanders Wands has relocated to Hogsmeade for the duration._

 

“When did this happen?” Hermione said as she peered in the darkened windows of the shop.

“A couple weeks ago. Professor Dumbledore and Amelia Bones went to the Ollivander Family and basically demanded they move someplace safer. Old Mr. Ollivander will be living at Hogwarts this year. It’s a smart move. Most wizards in Britain are replaceable, but he isn’t. There’ll be a special wand-matching ceremony the first weekend of school—Oh, I almost forgot. There was a special notice added to the first-year letters.” He fished in his pockets. “I have a copy here.”

 

_SPECIAL NOTICE_

_Due to ongoing security concerns, first year students will be asked to purchase a wand from Ollivanders Wands upon arrival to Hogwarts. Please bring 7 galleons to make your purchase._

 

“That’ll be different,” Hermione said. “Have they ever done that before?”

“Not at Hogwarts. Apparently, they did it in America for a long time. Anyway, you can catch Ollivander’s son at the Hogsmeade store, but you’ll probably be alright until you get to Hogwarts.”

“I think that will be easier, Remus,” Dan said. “And we do have one other appointment today.”

Their remaining appointment was with Timothy Drucker of Whizz Hard Books—Harry’s publisher. Harry had had a series of children’s books published about his supposed adventures without his knowledge before he went to Hogwarts. It was annoying, but he let it go until he realised that even muggle-born kids (mainly Colin Creevey) were reading the books and getting the most ridiculous ideas about him. So he’d decided to write about his _real_ adventures at Hogwarts (which were admittedly no less ridiculous) to set the record straight. He’d since discovered he rather liked writing, and with Remus’s help, he had successfully published _Harry Potter and the Philosopher_ _’s Stone_ and _Harry Potter and the Heir of Slytherin_. Now, it was time to discuss the third instalment.

Timothy Drucker’s office was guarded by Aurors now where it hadn’t been previously, mainly because _Harry Potter and the Heir of Slytherin_ had revealed to the world that Voldemort was a half-blood just days before his return. Drucker was no stranger to controversy, but he wasn’t shy about saying this was the biggest gamble of his career.

“It’s been quiet so far, Lord Potter,” he told the group. “I don’t know how closely you follow it where you live. There have been a few symbolic attacks just to show You-Know-Who means business, but they haven’t tried to hit my shop yet—too public to have to fight Aurors for it.”

“Dumbledore said he thinks Voldemort wanted to lie low for a while,” Harry said. “Fudge forced his hand when I told him, but he’s not really prepared yet.”

“Good for us, then,” Drucker replied. “I have to hand it to you; timing that last book just before he showed himself was genius. The atmosphere’s different from last time. With people knowing You-Know-Who was lying, it makes him seem more human and less like and unstoppable monster.”

“‘Human’ isn’t the word I’d choose,” Harry said. “And I wouldn’t count on that working for long.”

Drucker frowned. “Why not?”

“Because Voldemort’s too smart for that. He was pretty mad, yeah, but we’ve been thinking about what he said that night. We think he might be trying to reposition himself as a magic supremacist rather than a pureblood supremacist.”

He considered this for a minute. It wasn’t an alien concept. Grindelwald’s cause was much the same. “Would that work, though? His followers are all purebloods.”

“With his history, it would, Mr. Drucker,” Remus said. “He rejected his muggle heritage and murdered his muggle family. Muggle-borns usually try to hold onto their muggle heritage, which still puts them at odds with him. He can spin it that way.”

“He murdered his family?” Drucker said in surprise.

“Yes, an unsolved murder case in Yorkshire—but we’re not getting too much into that.” The Grangers had had a long talk with Dumbledore about whether they wanted to capitalise on the publicity of the last book by airing the rest of Voldemort’s history that he had taught to Harry and Hermione in their third year, or to keep it hidden for now. They eventually decided to censor most of it for fear that if they let on that they knew too much of Voldemort’s history, he might suspect they were hunting his horcruxes.

“I see…So what did you want to talk about, Lord Potter? You know, it would still be good for you to do a book signing—”

“No,” all the Grangers said.

“No book signings for me for the duration, Mr. Drucker,” Harry said. “My security’s hard enough as it is. I wanted to talk to you about my next book instead.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You still want to try publishing another book even though You-Know-Who is back? It’s bad enough now. Trying to do another book release about him under his nose will be hard.”

“Yes, but my next book isn’t about Voldemort,” Harry said. “Do you remember what happened a year ago?” He laid a draft on his desk with the title _Harry Potter and the Year of the Wolf._ “This one is about Fenrir Greyback.”

Drucker looked down at the book and back up at Harry. “Greyback? Of course. That _would_ be interesting. But it’ll still be difficult. We both know You-Know-Who’s taken a special interest in you.”

“I know, but you’ve been a big help with _Harry Potter and the Heir of Slytherin_ , and we really appreciate that. We also know that this will be going out on a limb for me again, but if you’re willing to try it, I think I can make it worth your while.” He pulled two more drafts from his book bag and laid them on the desk.

Drucker looked at them sceptically. “Your first two books?” he asked.

Harry smiled. “All three books _revised_ with the exclusive story of everything I did in my animagus form.”

The publisher’s eyes widened. Harry’s first two books had been heavily redacted to hide information that was personal, politically sensitive, or needed to be kept secret for the sake of the coming war against Voldemort. A lot had been cut, but the biggest omission was the fact that Harry was an animagus, something that particularly detracted from _Harry Potter and the Heir of Slytherin_ , as it made large parts of that year make very little sense. However, he’d been forced to reveal that secret to the world on the night Voldemort returned, so he could now re-include it in the second edition of his first two books.

“Lord Potter, you have a fine head for business,” Drucker said with a grin. “New expanded editions…and a boxed set, maybe?” Harry nodded. “That would really be a coup for us. When were you thinking of releasing them?”

“We were thinking Christmas this time. Sooner’s probably better than later in these uncertain times. After that, we’ll probably do one a year if we can manage it at all. I don’t think _Harry Potter and the Tournament of Doom_ will be ready in time for summer of 1996, so that’ll be Christmas again, and with my luck, I’ll get into some kind of insane shenanigans again this year, so you’ll be set for a while.”

“Harry, you shouldn’t talk like that,” Emma chided.

“Voldemort’s back, Mum. You think things _aren_ _’t_ gonna go to hell?”

“Harry—! Probably yes, but you still shouldn’t talk like that.”

“I’m just trying to be realistic, Mum. So, Mr. Drucker, do we have a deal.”

“Definitely, Lord Potter.” They shook on it and started drawing up the contract.

* * *

“Samuel Lateran has refused your advance, my Lord,” the trembling Death Eater said. He was still bleeding from scratches on his arms and chest—scratches that would scar badly regardless of whatever healing was applied. “He said that he will not repeat the mistakes that Greyback made, especially now that the Ministry is being friendlier towards werewolves than they have been since before Greyback’s attacks started. He was…very insistent.”

Voldemort scrutinised the Death Eater, reading his thoughts. He had indeed made all reasonable efforts at recruiting the werewolves and would likely have been killed if he had pressed it further. It was purely Potter’s and Black’s fault that one of his strongest allies had turned. “Very well,” he said, much to his servant’s relief. “If the werewolves have chosen to throw their lot in with the Ministry, they will live and die by that decision. Unfortunately, we do not yet have the forces to make an enemy of them. You may go.”

“Thank you my Lord.” He bowed and hurried out of the room.

“Our plans are still proceeding, Voldemort told the assembled Death Eaters. “We await the return of Macnair and Rowle from their mission to the giants. Nott, I want you to approach Josefina Zabini. If she is amenable to our cause, she will have the best prospects for contacting the vampires.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Nott said.

Nott had already redeemed himself more than most of his servants by recruiting Lord Jugson to the Death Eaters. A third hereditary seat in the Wizengamot was a valuable prize. The black widow Zabini, though not on the Wizengamot, _was_ on the Hogwarts Board of Governors and would be equally valuable for her contacts on the Continent.

That was about as far as he could go with dark creatures. He had a few hags in his ranks, but they had never been very reliable followers. Centaurs and merpeople wanted nothing to do with humans. He kept tabs on the troll clans through Macnair, but for them, he would just round up a few to smash things if he ran a major operation.

Suddenly, young Barty’s house elf popped into the hall by the door. “Lady Pantera to see you, Master Dark Lord, sir,” she squeaked.

“Very well, send her in,” he said. “Leave us,” he told the rest of his followers.

They all filed out as the dark witch strode into the chamber. “Ah, Lady Pantera,” he greeted her, “have you made progress on your latest ritual?”

“In a manner of speaking, Voldemort,” she replied. “I’ve ruled out simply healing the cracks in your soul. Anything I could try, whether it’s a ritual or months of mind healing therapy, would leave you emotionally vulnerable and a less effective dark lord. I’ll have to do something different to patch over the cracks instead. The trouble is finding a suitable spiritual material. It needs to be made from a human soul, but have no independent will. The easiest would be to use one of your horcruxes, but I’m guessing you don’t want to do that.”

He hissed, and she felt the temperature rise a few degrees. “Not if there are any other options.”

“Then I’ll keep looking. But I had something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“About this little jailbreak of yours, I take it it’s hard to get in?”

“That may be the most obvious thing you’ve said yet,” Voldemort said. “It is the most heavily-guarded place in the British Isles. Even with the dementors on our side, it will be very hard to get in and even harder to get out.”

“Then I had an idea that should simplify it for you. There’s a ritual from farther north in the Americas that I’ve always wanted to try, but haven’t had the occasion. If it works, it’ll drop you right on the roof.”

Voldemort nodded thoughtfully. “Will it, now?”

“Yes, but I’ll need a plan of the prison to be sure we can do it without hurting the prisoners. I’ll also need someone who’s been there before to fix the location since it’s Unplottable.”

“The Crouches can help you with that, as you well know. But I cannot afford mistakes in this operation. Can you test it?”

“Only in small scale, but that will be enough.”

“Very well. I will accept your…assistance. I take it you will want an additional fee for this, Lady Pantera?”

La Pantera smiled: “This one’s complimentary, Voldemort. Supplies only. I’ll need three thunderbird feathers and a human scalp with hair at least thirty inches long—head optional.”


	4. The Fall of Azkaban

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Words are the only bullets in truth’s bandolier. And JK Rowling is the sniper.

Azkaban Prison was known for bad weather. With over a thousand dementors concentrated in the lowest pit of the fortress, the largest population in the world, they altered the weather patterns for miles around. Only an ICW-supported program to maintain the largest Expansion Charm in the history on the open waters around the island kept the muggles from noticing. The only way in was to enter an Unplottable patch of the North Sea that from the outside was smaller than the island itself.

But the bad weather around Azkaban was limited to perpetual heavy overcast conditions and nearly-perpetual rain—sometimes drizzling, sometimes pounding in torrents, but rarely accompanied by high winds and lightning. Wind and lightning required heavy storm clouds from outside to slip through the Expansion Charm to occur, which was rare.

So when a hurricane began forming directly over the prison, the Aurors guarding it were understandably wary. This sort of thing _did_ happen occasionally, but they paid attention when it did. And this storm whipped up much faster than usual for the area. The clouds gathered from all directions overhead, and the waves, far higher than normal, all seemed to converge on the island, which wasn’t normally possible given the wind patterns.

The Aurors surveyed the entire horizon, but they couldn’t see anything suspicious—only a particular darkening of the sky in the direction of the mainland, but they were too far to away see anything definite.

Auror Li opened the window and looked over the side of the guardroom into the Pit. A catwalk that only the dementors could access ran down to the pit, the guardroom windows being too small for them to climb inside. (This prison was built to keep the dementors in almost as much as the prisoners.) Li spotted a dementor brooding on the level below him. Braving the cold and despair, he stepped in front of the Patronuses and called, “Hey! Hey, you!” The black hood tilted up towards him. “Something’s wrong. Do you know what’s going on?”

A pain shot through his forehead, and he saw images—horrible ones—but not from his own mind. Dementors couldn’t speak. Experts debated whether they were even sentient, despite being able to understand spoken language. But they did have a way to communicate. While they normally made their victims relive their own worst memories, they could also show them other memories they had consumed. Li was assaulted by horrific images—images of swirling winds and waves that destroyed everything in their path, of men in black robes and white masks, an olive-skinned woman with a dagger, and a half-human demon with glowing red eyes surrounded by fire.

He reeled back from the window. “Crap! We’ve got company!”

“Who?” Auror Proudfoot said.

“You-Know-Who! He’s coming!”

“What?! How?” cried Auror Savage.

“Hell if I know, but the dementor said he’s coming. Plus a bunch of Death Eaters and that crazy Mexican lady.”

“Then watch the sea and air!” Savage said. “There’s no other way in.” She waved her wand and duplicated her Patronus. “Go tell Amelia Bones that Azkaban is under attack.” The second Patronus zipped through the wall, but then, she stopped and said, “What am I thinking? Dumbledore’s the only one who can get here fast enough.” She duplicated her Patronus a second time and sent a copy off to him.

Azkaban was a fortress: no fast ways in, no fast ways out. The only official contact was through a boat from shore. Apparition and Portkeys were blocked. There was no fireplace and no Floo powder. Normally, the quickest way in was to Apparate to the edge of the Extension Charm and fly a broom from there, which would take several minutes and would leave both attackers and reinforcements very exposed. Even owls were blocked. All correspondence had to go by boat, and the quickest way to get a message _out_ was by Patronus, which also took several minutes. Only a phoenix could get in and out faster because, being an immortal fire spirit, very little could really stop it, but “trained” phoenixes were very rare, and only Dumbledore had one in Britain.

Unfortunately, Auror Savage’s messages never reached their destinations. Patronus messages required the user to be conscious until they were delivered, and just moments later, the windows blew in. A piece of debris struck Savage in the head, knocking her out. By the time her comrades Rennervated her, her calls for help had died in mid-flight.

“What happened?” she shouted as she awoke to wind and rain swirling around her behind a wall of Shield Charms.

“The storm blew the windows in!” Li said.

“We’re supposed to be able to handle storms.”

“The fifteenth century fortress is. Not the guardroom.”

“Where are the Hitwizards?”

“Securing the entrances,” Proudfoot called. “We need to watch for aerial attacks. Shield Charms and Sticking Charms on your boots. You cover the south corner.”

The human guard at Azkaban had been doubled for the war, although that only meant increasing from three to six. It was hard enough to find people willing to pull a shift there. The Hitwizards were trained for rapid response and heavy fighting, so they were down at the entrances of the prison. Aurors were just as well-trained to fight, but they had many more roles: detective work, undercover spying, tracking, strategy, and so on, so they needed to watch and guard against more elaborate attacks. For the public face of the DMLE, the difference was largely academic. Indeed, in peacetime, the Aurors filled most of those roles, and the Hitwizards were mostly a reserve force, but they had all been activated for the war.

“We need to get a message through to Dumbledore!” Savage yelled, but she could very well cast it from her post. She needed a strong Shield Charm to hold back the wind, and while she did have a holdout wand on her, the Patronus Charm wasn’t exactly something you could cast whilst focusing on another spell.

The wind roared louder, blowing up debris and stripping the modern facade from the guardroom level, sending more debris flying through the air. Savage saw ocean spray rising from the water two hundred feet below. “I can’t see anything! Where are they?” she called. There seemed to be no hope of getting a clear view of the outside. All she saw was water and debris blown sideways by the wind. All she could hear was the unrelenting howling—until she heard a sibilant, amplified voice sound through the prison from above.

“Denizens of Azkaban. I, Lord Voldemort, have returned.”

“Bloody hell! They’re on the _roof!_ ” she yelled.

* * *

A funnel cloud appeared directly over Azkaban prison. Rare in Europe and rarer still powerful enough to do heavy damage, plus normally being weaker over water, the tornado was breaking all kinds of laws of meteorology when it touched down onto the roof of the prison, extended downward just far enough to blow in the windows and strip off the facade on the guardroom level, and stopped there. The prison was solid. A strong enough tornado would rip almost any human-made structure to shreds, be it wood, stone, or steel, but the ten-foot-thick walls would stand up to anything short of months of bombardment by siege engines or generous quantities of high explosives. But that didn’t matter if hostile wizards could just walk in from the roof.

The tornado swirled there for a minute, then widened to leave the fortress itself protected in its eye and descended to the ground. No broomstick on Earth was powerful enough to push through that storm. In the middle of the roof stood six robed figures and two very scary looking dark mages. One was a woman dressed as an Aztec priestess, holding up a spinning talisman of hair and feathers on a staff above her head—La Pantera with her latest ritual. The other was half-man, half-snake and struck terror into the hearts of all, but Lord Voldemort was not wearing his usual black robes. Instead, he wore a midnight-black sleeveless tunic—or rather, he had removed the sleeves and hood from his battle robes, leaving two bone-white arms bare as he wielded a wand in one hand and a fireball in the other.

Voldemort amplified his voice and called out to the prison: “Denizens of Azkaban. I, Lord Voldemort, have returned. I have come to liberate my loyal followers—and their dementor guards. For too long you have been confined here, penned in by Patronuses and fed on scraps. Join me, release the prisoners from their cells, and you will be free once more.”

It was impossible to hear any response over the storm, but a strong feeling washed over the Death Eaters from below from the collective will of hundreds of dementors. It was a feeling that one rarely felt around the demons: triumph.

Voldemort smirked at his followers: “I think the dementors will cooperate. Quickly, now, the storm will last only an hour, and it will be much easier if we leave before reinforcements arrive.” He reached the relatively-unprotected door into the prison from the roof, placed the fireball in his left hand against it, and melted through the lock.

Selecting two Death Eaters to send in front as cannon fodder—or scouts, officially—to walk in front, they descended the main spiral of stairs into the fortress. They didn’t get far, however, before they began taking spellfire. Left with no way to escape through the storm, the Auror trio in the guardroom had set up a blind near the top of the spiral, in a section the dementors couldn’t enter, to try to make up for their lack of numbers with a strong defensive position. It was a wise move, probably the best they had available to them, but it wouldn’t be enough.

Even as the Death Eaters began casting back, Voldemort sheathed his wand and blasted two columns of fire forward, forcing the Aurors back. However, they were undeterred and kept casting. He motioned to La Pantera to help him, and he threw another blast of fire, which she followed up by waving her staff and creating a gust of wind. The fire blew into the alcoves where the Aurors were hiding, taking them by surprise and setting their robes ablaze. The Death Eaters advanced, and two of the Aurors were killed in seconds. The third ran for it. Voldemort motioned for two Death Eaters to follow her while he continued down.

They came to the first section of the fortress where the dementors were allowed. The demons immediately formed a path in the corridor and bowed to him like a king returning to his court. He pointed at one at random and said, “You. Come with me. You will be my guide. I seek my followers who have been chained here.”

Dementors had no social structure nor hierarchy nor even names that wizards could identify, so it didn’t matter which dementor he picked. The tall, cloaked figure fell into stride beside him and led the group down to the lower levels. The low-security and short-term prisoners were higher up, but Voldemort ignored them for now. He would give them a closer look on the way back up if he had time. Even though the dementors had unlocked many of the cell doors, these softer, less violent criminals had little will to walk out of them on their own, and most of them recoiled and wailed in terror upon seeing his face.

The worst of the worst prisoners were deep in the Pit, close to the dementors’ nest. These prisoners were too depraved to be rendered catatonic by their dementors’ presence. Insanity was their preferred malady, but not so insane that they were unable to help themselves when the opportunity arose.

In the second-lowest cell block (for the lowest cell block was filled with long-forgotten skeletons of spies and traitors from Grindelwald’s War), Voldemort’s followers had helped each other from their cells and were staggering towards the feeble light. The rejoiced to see him and fell down on their knees before him.

One of the pale, dirty figures was thinner than the others, with a gaunt look that left her prison clothes hanging off her like rags, but she still had a full head of curly black hair and a wild look in her eyes. Bellatrix Lestrange crawled forward and kissed his feet.

“My Lord, my Lord,” she said in a raspy voice. “You came for us. We knew you had returned when we felt our Marks burn. We knew you would come for us.”

“I have,” Voldemort said in an approximation of tenderness. “It is good to see you again, my dear Bella—and all of my loyal followers. Not many stood by my name when I was weakened, but you would not renounce me. For this, you will be greatly rewarded. Rise, now, for we must be quick.”

They stood and staggered towards the door. “My Lord,” an emaciated man with a curly beard approached him. “My Lord, how is it that you have come to us in person,” Augustus Rookwood said. “I know all the enchantments on this fortress. Reinforcements from the Ministry should have met any attackers in the air.”

Voldemort smiled: “It seems the Ministry guarded only against forms of travel that are common in Europe, Rookwood. And my new…associate devised a way to block the reinforcements…Your spell was a great help, Lady Pantera. It seems Azkaban cannot stand up to a frontal assault without a proper warning.”

“ _Nothing_ can stand up to three hundred mile-per-hour winds, Voldemort,” she corrected. “We Aztecs know how to use the power of nature to our advantage.”

“You dare speak his name—!” Bellatrix lunged forward.

“Peace, Bella,” Voldemort held her back. “Save your strength. Lady Pantera has earned the right to familiarity as a fellow Dark Mage in her own right.” He looked her in the eye and sent the addendum by Legilimency, _For now._

Bellatrix backed off and nodded submissively, regarding the newcomer. Face to face, it was even clearer that they would look strikingly similar had Bellatrix been healthy, despite the difference in her heritage. La Pantera was taller, but she had the same dark hair and eyes and the same imperious demeanour. Bellatrix seemed not quite sure what to make of her.

Meanwhile, Voldemort got to work as they trudged back to the surface. “Dolohov, come to me,” he said.

The old Russian, one of Voldemort’s original Knights of Walpurgis, pushed himself to come to his side. “Yes, my Lord.”

“The Ministry is moving faster than I anticipated. We must take decisive action. For now, you will rest. As soon as you are well enough, I want you to join the search for Karkaroff.”

The ragged man hissed in anger: “I will make him pay, Master.”

“Not yet, my friend,” Voldemort said. “The man is a traitor and a coward, but circumstances have changed. I do not want you to kill him…I want you to Imperius him—so that he may still be of some use.”

Dolohov looked surprised, but he said, “As you wish, Master.”

“Dementor, which other prisoners will be sympathetic to my cause?” Voldemort asked.

The dementor flashed a series of images through his mind of various prisoners and the locations of the cells.

“Interesting,” he said, noting one in particular. In the next cell block up, one of the prisoners, a short, prematurely grey man who still had a hint of fat around his face had slept through the recent events. After his years as a lazy rat, sleeping was still a viable defence for him from the dementors. It wasn’t as if his dreams were worse than his waking life—although they did seem to contain an inordinate number of cats.

A loud bang awoke him. He fell off his cot painfully, rolled over, and looked up in horror to see a snakelike face. For a moment, he was sure he was still dreaming, but then, pain shot through his Mark, and he knew it was real.

“M-M-M-Master…” he whispered.

“Peter Pettigrew,” Lord Voldemort looked down at him like something unpleasant on the bottom of his shoe. “The coward who spent a decade hiding as a family pet.”

“M-Master, f-forgive me,” he stammered. “I can explain. I w-was afraid, yes, b-but I could not account for my actions th-that night to the others…”

“Enough,” he was cut off. “We will discuss your loyalty later, Pettigrew. For now, we are pressed for time. Come with me.”

“Y-yes, Master.” He pulled himself to his feet and followed the growing collection of Death Eaters. And that woman with the Aztec headdress—he had no idea what was going on there, but he had a feeling it wasn’t good.

One cell in particular had very deliberately not been unlocked. Even the dementors had the sense not to let this one out. The man looked only half human, with a hairy face, and yellow fangs. He had one animalistic, blue-inside-black eye with the other covered by an eyepatch. He lunged at the bars and snarled as the wizards approached.

Voldemort radiated heat around him as an aura of power, and the man instinctively backed away from the more powerful challenger. “Fenrir Greyback,” Voledmort said. “How the mighty have fallen.”

The werewolf snarled again.

“Thirteen werewolves and a clear path into Hogwarts. You should be ruling Britain by now. Instead, you’re sitting in their prison.”

“And what are _you_ going to do about it, Voldemort?” Greyback shouted. Bellatrix lunged again, but Voldemort held her back. “What good did _you_ ever do us?”

“I welcomed you into my camp,” he hissed back, flaring the heat around him again. “I fed and clothed you when no one else would. I organised you into an army. Look what you’ve done without me. Wolfsbane was the greatest weapon you’ve received in a hundred years, and you squandered it. You allowed the enemy to gain the upper hand with it. My offer is still open to you: serve me, and I will ensure you are treated with respect. I will make you into an army again. I will show you the _proper_ way to use Wolfsbane to your full advantage.”

“Ha! And where will you get it? It took us years to find a supply, and we could use it only once.”

“I happen to have a potions master in my employ. Severus Snape brews the potion for the werewolves at Hogwarts. With a little effort, you will have a ready supply. Will you join me then?”

Greyback huffed once. “If you can, I will…my Lord.” The sarcasm was still noticeable, but Voldemort ignored it as he opened the cell door.

Having freed everyone he deemed of value, they hurried back to the surface, but Barty Crouch Jr, having had access to the records for months while he was impersonating David Monroe, still pointed out the other prisoners to him in case they found someone useful.

“Willy Widdershins,” he said, pointing to one. “Three months for muggle-baiting.”

Voldemort examined the memory of the incident supplied by the dementor. Regurgitating toilets. “Uninspired.”

“Mundungus Fletcher. He—” Barty stopped and looked into the cell. It was empty. “Hmm. I thought he was here. Dumbledore must have let him out. Anyway, let’s see…aha! My Lord, you might want to take a closer look at this one.”

“Who is it?”

“Gilderoy Lockhart. Once the bestselling author in Britain and the world’s most famed dark creature hunter—until they found out he was making it all up and stealing other wizards’ stories. They threw him in here two years ago for illegal use of memory charms, fraud, and sexual misconduct with his students at Hogwarts,” he finished with a sneer.

Lockhart stumbled towards the bars: “Those girls were all of—EEK!” he squeaked as he saw who was standing outside. “…age,” he finished with a whimper.

“I see,” Voldemort said. He already knew about this one, but he took pleasure in examining the memory anyway. “Perhaps you could be of some use to me,” he mused.

“What?” Lockhart said.

“I know about your case, Mr. Lockhart. I take some pleasure in seeing how my curse has ensnared its victims over the years, and your tenure as Defence Professor was especially entertaining. Though your ways are fraudulent and your magic narrow-minded, you are a very good writer with a gift for embellishment.”

“Well, when you p-put it th-that way…but…”

“Potter has made great inroads in the media because of his fame. He is now a bestselling author himself. It is time someone stepped up to oppose him.”

“Are you…are you offering me a job?” Lockhart said, more bewildered than anything else.

“I think the benefits would be to your liking.”

“Excuse me?” Lockhart was pretty sure the next words would be, _I_ _’ll let you live_ , but he was surprised.

“It seems that you have a fondness for attractive young witches. They are not something I have a taste for, myself, but I understand the preference is quite common,” Voldemort said with a smirk. “Such creatures are not hard to acquire for a Death Eater—and easier still if you will stoop to using muggles. You may convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty. We have willing dames enough.”

His eyes widened. That sounded too good to be true, especially coming from the Dark Lord. “But…what could I do?” he asked.

“Taking over the Ministry is one thing, Mr. Lockhart,” Voldermort said. “ _Running_ it is quite another. There will be so many things to keep operating smoothly. I will need credible and experienced workers in all fields to legitimise my regime. For example…I find that I will soon be in need of a Minister for Propaganda.”

In spite of all sanity, Gilderoy Lockhart smiled.

* * *

Lutetia Savage ran through the corridors of Azkaban. She could hear two Death Eaters racing behind her, their spells crashing on the walls. She tried to find a place to hide. She had to stay hidden for probably five minutes to get a Patronus through to Dumbledore. Unfortunately, Azkaban was specifically designed to have very few places to hide. She could hear the heavy footsteps coming closer, and she realised there was only one chance. She was probably going to be fired for this, but she looped around to get back to the guardroom. Hurrying to get out before the Death Eaters caught her, she unlocked the broom cupboard, pulled out a Cleansweep Seven, and jumped out the window.

Spells shot from the window. She dodged and started flying. There was no help of getting through the tornado. She could see that the winds were much faster than even a Firebolt. Instead, she went the only way she could: straight up.

She didn’t know how tall tornadoes were, but she flew higher and higher until the air started getting thin. The broom was shaking. She must be near its service ceiling, but to the vortex above her there was no end in sight. She cast another Patronus message: “Dumbledore, You-Know-Who’s in Azkaban. Brooms can’t get in or out. We need help.”

* * *

Three Hitwizards running up from below caught Voldemort as he neared the roof again. They didn’t stand a chance. However, when he actually reached the roof, the cavalry finally arrived in a pillar of fire.

“Dumbledore!” he hissed.

The old man took in the scene at a glance, standing firm against the howling wind that blew his beard over his shoulder and his hat clear away. “I cannot let you do this, Tom,” he called.

“You are too late, Dumbledore.” Voldemort motioned the Death Eaters and freed prisoners out onto the roof.

“I will stop you.” He raised his wand.

“I am not here to fight today, old man. Pantera! Time to go!”

La Pantera waved her staff in one hand and her knife in the other. The tornado constricted, collapsing onto the roof, but leaving a bubble of calm that housed the escapees and lifted into the air. Dumbledore did the only thing he could and ran and dove into the wind.

He found himself tumbling through the air as the tornado moved back towards the mainland at high speeds. It wasn’t like travelling with Fawkes. He lost all sense of gravity and direction instantly. The only way he could orient himself was by Voldemort’s movement. Neither of them was used to fighting in these conditions, but Voldemort didn’t let that slow him down. He threw columns of fire at Dumbledore, not bothering with his wand—something Dumbledore noted for later. Dumbledore tried to strike back, directing the water from the tornado inward at the flames. Forcing Voldemort back. He waved his wand and fired powerful curses at the Death Eaters, but Voldemort conjured a silver shield to block them.

La Pantera struck out with her seemingly superhuman control of the wind and nearly blew Dumbledore away. He quickly realised that she was the one in the position of power here. That talisman she was wielding must be part of some powerful ritual. He sent a curse of fire to destroy it, but she shielded with her dagger. This put him in a pinch. With the Elder Wand, he knew he could overpower her in a head-on duel, but focusing on her left him vulnerable to Voldemort’s fire attacks. Worse, his strength was in manipulating the terrain to his advantage, and La Pantera had near-total control of the terrain here in the air.

There was one thing he could think of to do. Dumbledore quickly shielded, then spun in the air and cast a complex series of spells that caused the driving rain to turn into hail, which he hurled at the enemy. Fire would vapourise rain, but hail would punch right through. Voldemort, taken by surprise, was knocked back, tumbling head over heel, taking a few bruises. The Death Eaters barely had time to shield the prisoners.

Dumbledore then swung the cloud of hail around to strike La Pantera and her talisman in particular, but unfortunately, she was ready. She had somehow pulled a live axolotl salamander from her robes and set it drifting in the air in front of her. She mumbled a few words, and with a lightning-fast swipe, she sliced its head off with her knife.

The hailstones froze as quickly as if they’d hit a wall. She pointed her knife, and they accelerated towards Dumbledore, propelled by a powerful blast of wind. The force was so great that he was blown clear out of the tornado to fall thousands of feet to the North Sea below.

He called for Fawkes, and seconds later, he fell in heap, battered and sopping wet, on the floor of Amelia Bones’s office.

“Amelia, we have a problem,” he told the alarmed woman.

* * *

Auror Savage clung to her broom against the freezing wind. It was dead in her hands, too high to function properly in the thin air. She barely managed to grip it, struggling to cling to consciousness, in hopes that it would function again when she fell from the cloud. The normal Bubblehead Charm didn’t work at this altitude, and she couldn’t remember the one to deliver extra oxygen in her present state. When the tornado had lifted from Azkaban, she’d lifted with it, with nowhere to go. Now she was at the mercy of this freak storm until it dissipated, praying the wind wouldn’t loft her any higher.

The storm finally did vanish over York, the clouds clearing up and burning away impossibly in seconds. She fell, then. After a terrifying plummet that felt like a lifetime, but which her Quidditch player friends calculated later couldn’t have been more than two minutes, her broom sprang to life again. She pulled herself onto it, took control, and dove to the earth. She kissed the ground when she landed, and it took her some time to comport herself enough to Apparate to the Ministry.

* * *

“I _told_ you we should be using Protean Charms for communication, not Patronuses,” Sirius growled. As Harry’s godfather, he could get into Ministry meetings well above his nominal rank as a Hitwizard.

“Protean Charms are one-to-many,” Amelia Bones said. “They’re very limited use, and it wasn’t considered worth the trouble. And besides, it wouldn’t have made a difference in this case. No reinforcements could have got through that storm.”

“Dumbledore did.”

“And wasn’t enough to stop them escaping. Plus, if we have to rely on one old man for everything, it’s just as useless—no offence, Albus.”

“None taken, Amelia.” Dumbledore said sullenly office. He couldn’t help blaming himself for failing. He thought he could take Voldemort on his own, but he hadn’t anticipated La Pantera’s mastery of the wind and storm. He would have to ask the other Grand Sorcerers if they knew what ritual that was.

“This is bad,” Amelia said. “All eleven of our top Death Eater prisoners broken out. Plus Greyback and his pack. And Lockhart, for some reason. Not to nitpick, but does anyone know why that idiot would be worth two knuts to You-Know-Who?”

“I’m afraid not,” Dumbledore replied. “Voldemort does not need an Obliviator, and I fail to see how any of Lockhart’s other talents benefit him.”

“Well, anyway…The fact is we didn’t have the resources in place to stop the breakout, Black, and that puts us in a very bad position…We’ll add the Protean Charms. You’re right. They might help. I’ll talk to Croaker about other modes of transport that could have worked. We obviously missed something there. Albus, if you can, petition the ICW for direct help.”

“Ah, on that we may have better fortune. The ICW is anticipating trouble in apprehending La Pantera. The police mission they are sending is, in fact, a coalition force for forward presence in all but name.”

“That’s good, but warn them they may have to escalate quickly.” Amelia sighed heavily. “And I think we can all agree the dementors are worse than useless at this point.”

“Then get them out of there,” Sirius said.

“We can’t move them from Azkaban, Black. There are too many of them. And if You-Know-Who can get in there, where could we put the prisoners that he can’t?”

“In the ground, I say. Bring back the death penalty.”

Amelia shot Sirius a stern look. “We might be able to, but remember _ex post facto_. We can’t execute anyone unless we catch them and can tie them specifically to a _new_ murder. We don’t want a repeat of your case. But the escapees are already subject to the Dementor’s Kiss, so we’re clear there. In the meantime, we need _someplace_ to put prisoners who are too dangerous to keep in Ministry holding cells.”

“Convert one of the abandoned castles in the Shetland Islands,” Dumbledore said. “Move the prisoners there and seal Azkaban with as many physical protections as you can. I will see if I can find a way to prevent this jailbreak from being repeated.”

“That’ll be expensive,” she said. “And guarding the new prison will take a lot of manpower.”

“Booby traps,” Sirius said with a snap of his fingers. “Rig the whole place with them, inside and out. That’ll cut down on the amount of guards you need. Remus and I can think of some—probably hire a couple of cursebreakers, too.”

Amelia nodded slowly as she considered this. “That’s not a bad idea, Black,” she said. “I know some high-security muggle prisons have lethal countermeasures against escape. And Azkaban had the dementors. I think I can sell it to the Minister. That’s what we’ll do. Grab a couple Aurors and go scout out some locations as soon as you can.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

“Three dead. Two seriously injured. And one collapsed face-down, soaked to the bone, and half-frozen in the Atrium of the Ministry. So much for our vanguard at Azkaban.” Amelia was already dealing with the disaster at Azkaban, but Auror Savage didn’t know that yet. Savage had been showing herself to be one of the best on the force, so Amelia was going to hold her to a high standard. She’d let her stew through her other meetings and took her properly to task when she was done.

For her part, Lutetia Savage stood resolutely at attention. “I undertook the action I thought was most likely to prevent the prisoners from escaping, ma’am,” she said. “I stand by that, and I’m willing to accept any punishment you deem fit for abandoning my post.”

“I see…” she said sternly. “In that case, I want a full accounting of the events that led up to that decision.”

Amelia indeed interrogated Savage in exacting detail about the breakout—as much because she was the only witness in a condition to report about it as to account for her own actions, and she was relieved to find herself satisfied with the answer.

“Very well, Savage,” she concluded. “Your punishment is the night shift in Diagon Alley for the next week.”

“The…Excuse me, ma’am?” Savage said. She was sure she would be dismissed for this.

“I’m not paying you to walk into a death trap, Savage. I’m paying you to use your head. Your team mounted the best defence you could. You could’ve done more to get a hold of Dumbledore, but that wasn’t standard procedure anyway. You risked your life for a plan that had a better chance of stopping You-Know-Who than anything else when you could’ve just run for the boathouse. That’s the kind of thinking we need on the force…That, and with losing Proudfoot and Li, we’re understaffed.”

“Er, yes, ma’am,” Savage said with relief.

* * *

“No! No! Get it away from me!” Peter Pettigrew cried. “Shoo! Shoo! _Woof woof woof!_ ”

 _Meow_.

The conjured black cat paced back and forth in front of the wizard who was cowering, curled up in the corner as Voldemort watched with amusement.

“Interesting reaction,” the dark lord said. “How were you captured again, Pettigrew?”

“I t-told you, Master. The squib’s cat attacked me. Potter and his sister saved me because they thought I was their friend’s pet, but they n-noticed I wasn’t reacting n-normally—oh, Merlin, get it away from me!” he cried as the cat came closer. “I tried to get away, but they were suspicious. They c-captured me with a Levitation Charm and took me to McGonagall.”

“And the fact that Potter is a cat animagus had nothing to do with it?” Voldemort asked.

“N-no, Master. M-Master, please—!”

Voldemort flicked his wand, and the cat vanished. He stalked closer to Pettigrew. Something about this story didn’t add up. This called for a deeper look. He pointed his wand and verbally cast, _“Legilimens.”_ Soon enough, the answer was clear. “It seems your memory has been modified, Pettigrew. I think you’ll find that will explain your phobia. Too bad for you. I was considering letting you off more leniently for your time in Azkaban, but tampered memories can be very _difficult_ to recover.”

Pettigrew’s screams reverberated throughout Riddle Manor.


	5. The Wyrd Sisters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Double, double, toil, and JK Rowling.
> 
> I took the Pottermore Patronus quiz and guess what my Patronus was: a wildcat. I was kind of hoping for a squirrel, but I do appreciate the coincidence.
> 
> In case you haven’t been following the previous stories, there are a few differences from real-world history in the Animagus-Verse.

_“You were captured by an eleven-year-old boy in cat form, Pettigrew. You’re even more pathetic than I thought.”_

* * *

“Harry,” Sirius said, “I’d like to introduce you to Kirley Duke, the lead guitarist of the Weird Sisters.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Duke,” Harry said. He patronisingly shook the musician’s hand. He still didn’t see much point in Sirius arranging this meeting despite it being cool to meet the band in their studio.

“Good to meet you, too, Lord Potter, but it’s just Kirley. Mr. Duke is my father.”

Harry glanced at Sirius. He could see why the two men got along. Of course, Sirius probably would have been a rock star himself if he had any natural musical talent. Kirley Duke was a tall, but slight man, though he looked less like a vampire without his makeup on. The best thing, Harry supposed, was that he wasn’t taken in by fame, being famous enough himself.

“Well, I enjoyed your performance at the Yule Ball last year,” Harry said.

“Glad to hear it, man. Glad to hear it,” Kirley replied. “Say, what was that crazy dance you were doing when we were coming on that nobody else could do? I know it was muggle, but it’s been too long since I was into muggle music.”

“Oh, that was a five-step waltz.”

“A five—a five step waltz?” Kirley said incredulously. “Muggles do weird dance numbers like that?”

“Not really. They’re not that common. But that was a famous one by Tchaikovsky—the _Path_ _étique_ Symphony, second movement.”

“Cool, I’ll have to go buy the record.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a confused look. “When did you finish Hogwarts again?” Harry said. “We use CDs now.”

Sirius cleared his throat: “No electricity in Hogsmeade.”

“Oh, right…When I get done with school, I’m _definitely_ living in a muggle town.”

“So anyway,” Sirius got them back on track. “Kirley, we had something important to talk to you about. We need you to keep it a secret, and I mean top-level Ministry stuff. But it might affect the band directly, so we need to bring you in on it.

Kirley paled. “Whoa, we just play music, Lord Black,” he said, backing off a step. “We don’t go in for this cloak and wand stuff.”

“Yes, but if Sirius is right—and I’m not convinced he is, mind you—this might be beyond either of us,” Harry said. “See, the day after…the day after Voldemort returned, I witnessed a prophecy.”

“A prophecy?”

“Yes—a prophecy that might name you.”

“Us? How’s that?”

“You’ll keep it a secret?” Sirius asked.

Kirley nodded vigorously: “I’m not letting _this_ hit the press, Lord Black.”

Sirius nodded to Harry, who took a deep breath and recited Cho’s prophecy: _“The Weird Sisters will be reunited before the summer dies. The Dark Lord regathers his forces, more terrible than ever before. The one who thrice defied him stands before a high mountain to oppose him. But before the leaves begin to turn, the weird sisters will gather together once more in his aid, and he will call new allies to his side, for Mars will reign over Europe. The Weird Sisters will unite before summer dies.”_

The musician was even paler by the time Harry finished. “Dude,” he said, “unless you think You-Know-Who’s gonna be beat with the power of rock and roll…which would be awesome, but…”

“We’re trying to figure out what it means,” Harry said. “The only Weird Sisters we know are you guys and the Shakespeare characters.”

“Well I don’t think it’s us, Lord Potter. And I got the name from Shakespeare anyway.”

“Shakespeare didn’t write ‘weird’ though,” Hermione said. “He wrote ‘weyward’—with an ‘e’, and he also spelt it ‘weyard’. We looked into it, and neither word appears anywhere else in literature. _Macbeth_ is the Oxford English Dictionary’s only source for them. Scholars interpret it as ‘weird’ rather than ‘wayward’, but they didn’t support either until more than a century after his death.”

“Are you sure the prophecy said the _Weird_ Sisters, then? In the magical version of the story, it’s—”

“The _Wyrd_ Sisters. We know,” Hermione said. “It’s possible, but we don’t really think so.”

“Have you done anything this summer that would fit reuniting or giving aid to Harry?” asked Sirius.

Kirley shook his head: “No, man. We’ve had plenty of gigs this summer, and we’ve been doing our own thing, not helping you or the Ministry or anyone—no offence. We’re just a band. I don’t know what we could do anyway.”

“We’re just trying to explore the possibilities, Kirley,” Sirius said. “The prophecy sounds like it ought to be you, but if nothing you’re doing fits it, we’ll have to think of something else.”

“Ah. Well, good luck with that. Now, it was good meeting you, but I have a tour to book…in France…until October.”

“Right…scaredy cat,” Sirius muttered under his breath as they left.

“Oi!” Harry protested.

* * *

With the prophecy unsolved, the Grangers were met with yet another mystery when Professor Dumbledore invited them to a special meeting at Hogwarts, not in his office, but on the shores of the Black Lake. Sirius escorted the family up from Hogsmeade, and they reached the Lake to find an unusual collection of people. Dumbledore was there, of course, but with Fawkes riding on his shoulder. And rather than Professor McGonagall or any of the other teachers, Professor Trelawney and Mr. Ollivander were with him. Minister Fudge and Amelia Bones were there, too, but also, most unusually, so were the Chang Family.

“Hi, Cho. What are you doing here?” Harry asked.

Cho looked up from beside her parents. She didn’t look well. She was hunched over slightly, she had lost weight, and she had dark circles around her eyes. “Oh, hi, Harry,” she said sadly. “Professor Dumbledore asked us to come.”

“This _is_ a little unusual, Albus,” Fudge said. “Why did you bring these guests to such a high-level meeting?”

“One of the arriving dignitaries specifically requested their presence, Cornelius,” Dumbledore answered. “For those of you who don’t know, the ICW has sent a police mission to Britain with orders to apprehend the Dark Lady La Pantera for violations of international law. The leaders of the operation are arriving here this morning. I wanted you to meet them here before introducing them to the Wizengamot tomorrow.”

Harry and Cho looked at one another. Both could guess roughly why each of them was invited to this meeting, but it still seemed surprising.

“Here at the lake?” Fudge asked.

“This location has the easiest access from the south,” Dumbledore said.

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“If you’ll look across the Lake, Minister, I think you will see.”

They all looked to the south, and they saw a speck on the other side of the Lake, blurred with motion as it moved towards them on the water at an impossible speed. Seconds later, Edward Grayson was standing before them, singing the final strains of a Gaelic folk song.

“G’day, mates,” he said.

“Ambassador Grayson,” Fudge said in surprise, “I didn’t know you were joining the team.”

“It’s only natural, Minister Fudge. I’m the one who knows the situation on the ground the best—besides Albus, of course. I volunteered for the mission. I’ve also arranged with Minister Hitchcock to offer sanctuary like we did in the last war, but we can discuss that at the meeting. Are any of the others here yet?” he asked.

“I am, Edward,” a voice sounded.

Everyone looked around, and then, a figure in a long, black cloak stepped out from behind a tree that should have been far to small to hide him. He lowered his hood, revealing a weathered old man with an even more weathered staff in his hand.

Mr. Ollivander’s eyes grew wide when he saw the man. “Master Shomihkasi,” he whispered in awe.

“Indeed, Garrick. It has been a long time.”

“I should say so,” Ollivander said, stepping forward to shake his hand. “We wandmakers so rarely have time to travel outside our homelands. What about the children in America?”

“Others are ready to take my place, Garrick. Albus. Amelia,” he nodded to the others, who all looked quite surprised at another wandmaker being invited to the meeting.

Fudge quirked an eyebrow at Amelia: “You’ve met?”

“Only briefly,” she said.

“Yes, introductions,” Dumbledore said. “For those of you who don’t know, Master Shomihkasi, or Old Coyote, is the premier wandmaker in the Americas…and Grand Sorcerer of the American Expeditionary Force in Grindelwald’s War.”

Even Amelia looked at Old Coyote in a new light. She hadn’t looked into him that closely, but she hadn’t expected him to be that powerful. Grand Sorcerer was a title reserved for wizards on Dumbledore’s level, or near it.

Fudge, meanwhile, looked at the man’s cloak and said, “How did you do that, Master Coyote?”

The older man waved the edge of his cloak, which seemed to ripple and bend his arm impossibly as it moved. “It’s a Hidebehind Hide,” he said. “We use them much like a Demiguise Cloak in America. It bends space, allowing the user to hide behind almost any object.” He looked around and surveyed the growing crowd. “Are we all here, Albus?”

“Not quite, Coyote,” Dumbledore said. “Our final representative should be arriving in…” He checked his watch. “Forty-five seconds. I’m told she is not well enough to travel by any conventional method.”

They waited and watched, wondering how the final delegates were coming. Portkeys, the usual method of international travel, were very rough, and few others could manage that distance. They all jumped when a pillar of fire burst into existence right in the midst of them. When it receded, it was replaced by two figures, one a very old Chinese woman—a good deal older than Dumbledore, by the look of her—and a tall, young man who was supporting her with his arm. But the most notable feature about the pair was the beautiful golden phoenix sitting on the woman’s shoulder—probably the only fast form of magical travel that could be called comfortable.

Cho stood stock-still when she saw her. “Grandmother Fan,” she whispered.

“Who?” said Harry.

“That’s Fan Tong,” she said. “The great Chinese Seer…she’s my great-great-grandmother.”

The phoenix trilled softly as the old woman caught her breath. It turned and stared at Fawkes. It was an uncanny sight: they seemed almost mirror images. Fawkes was red with gold highlights. Fan Tong’s phoenix was gold with red highlights. And from the way they cawed at each other, they seemed to be acquainted.

“Thank you, Xihe,” Fan Tong said to the phoenix. “Jie, please see to her.” The young man held up his arm, and the phoenix hopped onto it. He stood by Dumbledore, where the birds continued to stare at each other.

“Cho,” Mr. Chang said sharply and nodded towards her. The family walked forward and bowed low to the old woman. “It is an honour to meet you, Grandmother,” he said.

“Of course, Qiang,” she said, bowing slightly in return before turning to Cho. “And this is the new Seer?” she asked.

Cho trembled nervously and stepped forward. “Y-yes…I am, Grandmother.”

“Come to me, Qiu Qiu. Let me see you.” Fan Tong took Cho’s face in her hands and looked into her eyes. “Yes, I see the Gift in you—newly awakened, young and marked by pain, but with a strength you’ve yet to discover in yourself…It is good to see another of my family has the Gift, Qiu Qiu. I have much to teach you…And you told me you had another Seer, Dumbledore,” she raised her voice, causing Cho to wince.

But the question was unnecessary, for Professor Trelawney started forward with an expression on her face that Harry usually associated with overzealous fangirls. “Madam Fan,” she said, shaking her hand, “such an honour it is.”

“Ah, yes. Sybill Trelawney,” Fan said. “I’m sorry our paths have never crossed before. Your great-great-grandmother taught me much in my youth.”

Trelawney gave her a shaky smile. “Grandpa told me quite a lot about you, Madam Fan.” The old woman nodded patronisingly.

“Harry, I think you might be right,” Hermione whispered as they watched.

“About what?”

“About the prophecy.”

“Huh?”

“Shakespeare’s witchers were Seers, remember? Everything they predicted came true. And look.” She pointed to the three gathered witches. “Three Seers in one place. That can’t be common, even in Divination class.”

“But it’s Trelawney,” he said.

Indeed, Madam Fan seemed to agree. She frowned as she examined the professor closely as she had Cho. “Who taught you the ways of the Seer, Xiao Ming?” she asked.

“I…Professor Amittai, Madam. The old Divination Professor. He said I had a great gift of the Sight—”

“He was a quack!” Madam Fan snapped. And Trelawney jumped about a foot in the air. “Oh, you do have the Sight, child, but your aura is so bent out of shape it’s a miracle you can use it. It’s no wonder there have been so few prophecies in Britain lately with that sort of instruction.”

“M-M-Madam Fan,” Trelawney said, looking hurt, “Professor Amittai was a wonderful teacher—”

“Bah! Did _he_ have the sight? I doubt it. What of your career? Have you ever composed an oracle? Learnt astral projection. Attempted any form of scrying beyond basic crystal gazing? Xu Fu, girl, have you ever so much as named a child?”

“I…I…” Trelawney said with tears in her eyes. Everyone knew well she hadn’t.

“Enough. You will learn from me with my great-great-granddaughter, Xiao Ming. I think I will be able to repair most of the damage. Find someone else to divine vague meanings from tea leaves and palm lines.”

Harry turned to see Hermione, who was staring at the Seers in amazement. He guessed she wasn’t sure whether to feel vindicated that Trelawney didn’t know what she was talking about (she grew tired her roommates singing the woman’s praises) or shocked that there _was_ something to divination after all.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, ending the spectacle. “Well, now that we are all here, we should begin. The reason I called you here beyond mere introductions is to inform you of some important developments in the war. All of you know about Miss Chang’s recent prophecy, but what you do not know is that I was recently informed of an oracle—a prediction composed from the content of prophecies and visions—written by Madam Fan, which portends dire consequences for the war.”

“Actually, Albus,” Grayson interrupted, “before we get started, I have a letter to give you as well.”

He handed over an envelope. Dumbledore opened it and read it over, his face turning solemn.

“What is it, Albus?” Fudge asked.

“I’m being asked to step down as Supreme Mugwump to avoid a conflict of interest.”

All of the Britons in the crowd gasped. “Step down?” Amelia said, “but Albus, if they make you leave the ICW—”

“It will change very little, Amelia,” he assured her. “The ICW is already offering as much help as we can reasonably expect of them. I will not be as high in the information chain, but with Madam Fan here with us, I am less concerned about missing critical intelligence.”

That mostly assuaged their fears, although Madam Fan didn’t instill the greatest confidence either to look at her. By now, she had turned her attention to Harry. “So this is the Chosen One,” she said as she approached him.

Harry blushed uncomfortably. “I guess I’m well known in China, too, ma’am?” he said.

“True, but that is not what I meant,” she replied. “You have the aura of destiny around you, Mao Mao. Any Seer can See that. You will—” She stopped an went rigid, and her voice came out again with a harsh, rasping sound. _“The maimed lord and lady will return to their court!”_ she said, before she gasped and went into a coughing fit. Her young aide, Jie, rushed to help her.

“The maimed lord and lady will return to their court,” a voice sounded from the elaborate necklace she was wearing. Most of the crowd stared in shock at having apparently heard a prophecy so casually.

“Madam Fan, what is that?” Trelawney asked.

“It’s a Seer’s Talisman. It repeats any prophecies I make so I can actually remember them.”

Even Dumbledore looked shocked by that.

* * *

The Wizengamot meeting was a bustle of activity the next morning. It was the first full meeting since the Azkaban breakout, and security was very tight. The lowest level of the Ministry was crowded by Wizengamot members and families, Aurors, and ordinary citizens who had come to hear what their government was doing to keep them safe. In short, it was a powder keg.

But it was one that the Grangers were prepared for. They’d been introduced to the information they needed to know in the smaller meeting yesterday: Fan Tong’s alarming oracle had predicted a larger war in Europe—one in which not just two, but four Dark Mages would join forces against Britain, which was why the ICW had assembled four Grand Sorcerers in turn to oppose them when one ought to have done fine. The oracle would not be publicly revealed, but people would guess that something big was happening.

Hermione was now pretty well convinced of Harry’s interpretation of the Weird Sisters in Cho’s prophecy as the three Seers—especially if they accepted that it was an emendation of the Wyrd Sisters. But ironically, Harry now wasn’t so sure, and Sirius (who admitted still mostly wanted to believe it was about the band) agreed with his reasoning.

“Think about it,” he said. “We’ve got three Seers, yes, but look at them: one so young that she doesn’t know what she’s doing, one so old that her ‘gift’ is slowly killing her, and one so weak that she can’t predict her way out of a paper bag but once a decade—even Madam Fan said so.”

“She said she would teach them both, though,” Dan said. “Who knows what could happen in a year? But more importantly, is anyone else concerned about the ages of our Grand Sorcerers? Voldemort and La Pantera are both younger than they are.”

“That doesn’t make them less powerful,” Sirius pointed out.

“But it does mean they’re in poorer health. It seems like old soldiers stick around a really long time in the magical world, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“That’s not so different from the muggle world, Dad,” Hermione pointed out. “It’s just that powerful wizards can stay on the front lines all that time.”

“I suppose so, but still, I have to think Dumbledore can’t be as quick as he used to be.”

“You’re right, Dan,” Sirius said. “It is a concern, but we have the Ministry on our side, so that should count for something.”

“True.”

The new arrivals from yesterday were milling around the Atrium and the Level Ten foyer—some of them, at least. They saw Old Coyote speaking to several wizards, including one familiar red-haired man.

“Bill! Hey!” Harry greeted Ron’s older brother.

“Hey. Alright, Harry?” he said.

“Yeah. What are you doing here?”

“I arranged for a transfer back to England. I wanted to be closer to home.” He leaned close and whispered. “And I offered to help Dumbledore get rid of You-Know-Who’s you-know-whats.”

Harry nodded. “Do you have any idea where the missing one is?” he asked.

“Not yet, but I’m looking into our options. I was hoping Master Coyote had some ideas.”

“Not as such, I fear,” Coyote said. “But Madam Fan had some interesting ideas about scrying that we may be able to adapt to search for it.”

“We’ll keep you posted,” Bill said.

Naturally, several students in Harry’s and Hermione’s year were at the Wizengamot too with their families. The two of them—especially Hermione—had also been looking around for Neville, but they couldn’t seem to find him. It was only as he was entering the Wizengamot Chamber alongside several mysterious cloaked figures that they spotted him.

“Neville! There you are,” Hermione said.

“Oh, hi, Hermione, Harry,” he said. He kissed Hermione briefly, but he seemed preoccupied.

“We’ve been worried about you, Neville,” Hermione said. “We haven’t seen you since Harry’s birthday. How have you been?”

“It’s been…er, it’s complicated,” he replied awkwardly. “I mean, it was awful hearing about the Azkaban breakout, but then…well, come sit with us. I’ll explain during the meeting.”

The Grangers entered the Wizengamot Chamber in confusion, wondering what he was talking about. Everyone was seated in their places, and Dumbledore opened the session. “I hereby call the August session of the Three-Hundred and Ninety-Third Wizengamot to order,” he said. “Please do remain civil, for we have much to discuss. Before we begin, I would like to extend a special welcome to one of our members and his wife. Fourteen years ago, the then-Heir of one of the Lords of the Wizengamot and his family were savagely attacked in his own home. The couple were incapacitated, seeming permanently, and the Heir has lived as a Lord-in-Exile for many years, now. However, thanks to recent advances at St. Mungo’s, the couple in question have finally made a partial recovery and as of this week have been officially discharged from the hospital. They have joined us today for the first time. Please join me in welcoming Lord Frank and Lady Alice Longbottom.”

There were loud gasps as two of the cloaked figures by Neville stood up and took off their cloaks, revealing themselves as Neville’s parents. They waved to the Hall shakily, Frank supported by his enchanted leg braces, as several in the crowd began to cheer. The cheers soon built up to a standing ovation. Even Lucius Malfoy and his cronies were applauding politely. The Grangers knew the pair had been beloved Aurors in the last war, so their return must have been a powerfully moving event, not to mention an act of defiance in response to the Azkaban breakout. They were definitely getting the meeting started on the right foot.

“You brought them home from the hospital?” Harry asked Neville. Even he hadn’t known about that.

“Yeah, we thought they’d be safer at home. We’ve got two elves to take care of them now. But we kept it all secret, of course.”

At Dumbledore’s prompting, Frank leaned against the railing and said a few words. This would be difficult for him. Even with the drugs they were taking—muggle drugs intended to treat Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s—both of the Longbottoms still had damage to their speech centres and found spoken language difficult. “Thank you, please,” Frank said haltingly. “It is good to be forward—no—good to be back—yes…We are grating—no, grateful—to Lord Potterer and his pots—no, people—no, relatives…I think…They helped us bet gets—no, get better—no—yes…Harry and the Potters. They helped us…”

“Thank you, Lord Longbotton,” Dumbledore said. He seemed to be having a bad day. “To clarify, it was Lord Potter and his family who suggested that muggle medicine might be able to provide some help to Lord and Lady Longbottom where magical treatments had failed. To the surprise of many, they were correct. Lord Longbottom, do you wish to take up your seat at this time?”

“No, War Chief—no, Chief Waterer—no, Warlord—”

“N-no, s-sir,” Alice said beside him. Her speech was more coherent, but she stuttered badly. Between the two, they could just carry on a conversation.

“YES!” Frank said in confirmation. “My mother will reign as actor—no, act as regent—I—yes. She will.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “We are all glad for your return. Next, I would also like to welcome the foreign dignitaries who have been sent from the ICW with the assignment of apprehending the Dark Lady La Pantera for her crimes committed in Britain. Please welcome Ambassador Edward Grayson from Australia, Master Shomihkasi Coyote from MACUSA, and Madam Fan Tong from China.”

The three dignitaries were briefly recognised. The Grangers watched the Malfoy Family and their allies closely for any sign of reaction. It was hard to tell, but they wouldn’t be thrilled with the development. They would know that things would get much harder with those three around.

Finally, Dumbledore got the meeting proper underway: “The first order of business is our reaction to the unfortunate breakout from Azkaban several weeks ago…”

The meeting ran long. First, there was Amelia Bones’s report on the breakout and the actions that were being taken to respond. Sirius presented the plans he had drawn up in for the new prison in the Shetland Islands. Fudge was cautiously behind it, but they needed funding. There was vigorous debate over whether to abandon Azkaban and seal it up. It had, after all, been established for three hundred years. But Madam Bones insisted that they couldn’t keep prisoners contained on Azkaban Island, nor could they keep the guards safe, so the motion passed easily.

The next motion was for the adoption of Sirius’s system of lethal security features in the new prison. That was much more controversial despite the fact that the dementors had basically served the same purpose previously, but Bones testified that it would make the prison more secure with less manpower and expense, and Harry himself stood up and gave a summary of the use of electric fences in maximum-security muggle prisons for comparison.

The motion passed—not by as much, but the fear in the air was enough to do it. Fear was a dangerous weapon in politics. After Fenrir Greyback attacked Hogwarts, fear had led the Wizengamot to enact harsher laws towards werewolves than the Grangers had wanted, though they narrowly avoided the truly disastrous ones. However, in this case, it came down in their favour. The people were afraid enough of the escaped Death Eaters and werewolves that they passed Sirius’s motion by a narrow margin.

“I move to recall our aid workers from East Africa and Zaire in anticipation of increased need for them at home,” one of the members announced for the next order of business. That had broad support. With the East Africa War long since over, the aid workers in Africa consisted mainly of Healers who were trying to get the Ebola outbreak under control. There would almost certainly be an increased need for Healers in Britain soon, and it took three weeks of quarantine to recall them from the hot zone. But on the other hand, the situation in Zaire was objectively much worse. The Ebola outbreak had raged for a year and was continuing to worsen. Thousands of muggles had died along with quite a few wizards, and the muggle governments at home and abroad were growing alarmed that it could spread farther.

There was a big argument to be made that getting the epidemic under control in the magical community was a high priority for the magical world as a whole. Comparisons were made with the Dragon Pox Epidemic of 1979, which was made that much worse by the war and killed more wizards than Voldemort and the Death Eaters had up to that point. But fear once again won out, and the Healers were pulled back. Admittedly, even Harry wasn’t sure what the right choice was there. The good news, though, was that magical Britain was solidly on a war footing. They were about as ready as they could be for whatever Voldemort was preparing to throw at them.

* * *

“I made a miscalculation with Potter, I admit,” Volemort told his followers. Now that his servants were recovering, it was time to tell them the full story of his…exile. Yes, that had a nice ring to it—an exile followed by a triumphant return. He would tell Lockhart to write it up later. “Surprisingly, it was not the idiot Pettigrew’s fault. I attacked without having all of the information, and I ignored the obscure protection that Lily Potter placed on her infant son, and I was grievously wounded. After a number of years and some fruitless efforts on my part, Amycus and Alecto and young Barty sought me out, as you know. Unfortunately, my return to power was complicated. My method of ensuring immortality was experimental, and while it worked as intended, returning me to a body proved more difficult than I anticipated. After exploring several avenues, we came upon Lady Pantera, and I hired her services. It was thanks to her efforts that I appeared to my less-than-loyal followers in the graveyard. She remains here so that she may continue to work on some private matters.”

La Pantera opened her mouth, probably to say just what those private matters were, but Voldemort shot her a harsh look reminding her that discretion was part of the job he’d hired her for.

“My Lord,” Bellatrix said. “The magic you used to defeat Dumbledore at Azkaban—I had never seen anything like it. Did you learn it in your travels?”

“No, my dear Bella, that was a happy coincidence,” he replied. He approached her with an approximation of a smile. “Lady Pantera’s ritual had a useful extra effect—giving me mastery of fire in all its forms.” He drew a finger across her cheek with enough heat to fall just short of a burn, and she all but melted into his arms.

“Ah, such power, my Lord,” she said softly.

He smirked. She’d always been so easy towards him. Bellatrix had had a tense interaction with La Pantera since their return from Azkaban. She viewed the Dark Lady as too disrespectful while La Pantera clearly saw Bellatrix as a lapdog. He hoped they would get along better, mainly because it would mean one less headache for him.

“And now you know the full tale,” he told them. “Now that we are all assembled, we can begin our campaign. With Macnair’s and Rowle’s return, we have the giants on our side, along with the dementors and _some_ of the werewolves, and we have the services of a master scryer on call. Soon, Britain will be ours!”

“Huzzah!” the Death Eaters yelled enthusiastically. A bit of an old-fashioned affectation even by his standards, but he didn’t begrudge them. Macnair and Rowle had done good work. They had got the giants on their side easily, despite Dumbledore’s stooges trying to win them over. They had opened relations successfully with Konstantin Jugashvili, whose impressive command of Siberian ritual magic could be very useful in the future. And Jugashvili had also provided a very interesting contact in Africa…

“Rookwood, with me,” he said. “We will have the conversation we ought to have had fourteen years ago about prophecies.”

* * *

Fifth year was definitely different for Harry and Hermione than the previous ones, not least because they were starting as prefects this year. That meant a special meeting at the start of the train ride to go over their duties and hand out patrol assignments. The Head Boy, Roger Davies, and the Head Girl, Patricia Stimpson, ran the meeting. Anthony Goldstein was the new Ravenclaw prefect for the boys, who for once didn’t try to start an argument over which of the three of them had the highest exam score. Padma Patil joined him from his own house. Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan served for Hufflepuff, and to their dismay, Draco Malfoy was the newest prefect from Slytherin, although his partner, Daphne Greengrass, was a decent sort in their estimation.

“Oh, it’s you, Malfoy,” Harry said when they saw him “So they let you come back here, did they?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, Potter?” he said. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Yet.”

“Harry, be nice,” Hermione said.

But Harry wasn’t in a mood to be nice—not after seeing Malfoy’s father in that graveyard.

“Better listen to your sister,” Malfoy said. “You wouldn’t want to get in trouble your first day back.”

“And you’d better watch your step, Sparrow,” Harry said. “I’ve got my eye on you.”

“Please, Furface, like I’d try anything under Dumbledore’s crooked nose.”

“Oh? Then you might be smarter than your father.”

“You have a problem with my father?” Malfoy demanded. Hermione gripped Harry’s arm tightly. He definitely didn’t want to get into an honour duel on the first day back.

“Several,” he answered, “but none we need to discuss here. _We_ both know what your father’s done, even if it’s not public record.”

“I’m sure you think you do. But we’ll have to continue this conversation later,” he said with no intention of doing so.

After the prefects’ meeting, Harry had to face a lot of questions on his and Hermione’s patrol round, which he mostly brushed off. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh or cry when he realised that more people wanted to see him turn into a cat than hear about his fight with Voldemort. Either way, he refused. Changing in front of people without good reason was something he reserved for his family, and now Luna.

Wow, that came out wrong.

When they reached Hogsmeade Station, the first thing they noticed was that Hagrid wasn’t there to greet the first years. Instead, Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, who had taken over Hagrid’s duties during his brief stint in Azkaban in their second year, escorted the first years to the boats. The rest went to the carriages as usual, but Harry stopped short there. He could see the thestrals now.

“It’s okay, Harry. I can see them too,” Luna said, taking his hand. She led him gently in front of the carriage where she directed him to pet one of the skeletal horses’ snouts. They stood there until people yelled at them to get out of the way.

“I wonder where Hagrid is,” Harry said.

“Wasn’t there something about him going to the giants?” she asked.

“Yes, but he should be back by now. I hope he’s okay.”

“Well, to be honest, Harry, after the Skrewts, a new teacher might be a nice change,” Luna said. Harry rather liked Hagrid, but he had to admit she had a point.

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was as majestic as ever with its enchanted ceiling and thousands of floating candles shining down on the students and glimmering off the gold plates and cups. The Hall still looked a little empty, owing to the small third- through seventh-year classes—all children born during or soon after the last war. The post-war baby boom didn’t start until the second-year class, but the new first years would go a long way towards filling in some of that empty space at the House Tables.

The lineup at the High Table looked decidedly different this year, and considerably larger. Dumbledore looked down kindly from the middle, but all three of the Grand Sorcerers from the police mission were there as well, and some other newcomers. Harry was shocked to see a centaur standing at one end where Hagrid normally sat. He thought it was the same Firenze that he had met in the Second Task and wondered what he was doing there. As he sat, he heard several girls whisper about his luxurious mane and muscular chest, which made Hermione roll her eyes. He was still putting the pieces together when Professor McGonagall led the first years into the Great Hall.

Last year, the Sorting Hat had been jubilant with the first large incoming class in years, all the special events of last year, and the lack of a threat of impending war (though it had surely heard whispers from Dumbledore). This year, however, the Hat’s song was long and solemn. It sang of the coming war and warned of the danger of disunity within Hogwarts—that all four houses must stand together against the enemy, or the school would crumble from within. Many people pointedly looked at the Slytherins at that point.

Even so, Dumbledore put on a happy face for the students—or perhaps he truly was happy. Harry had always got the impression that teaching children was the one of his many jobs that the Headmaster enjoyed most. The Sorting took a while, but the feast afterwards was excellent, as usual. Finally, it wound down, and Dumbledore made his start-of-term announcements.

“First years ought to know that the forest on the grounds is out of bounds to students without a professor escorting them,” he said, “something a few of our older students ought to know by now, too.” He looked pointedly at the Weasley Twins. “Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you for what he assures me is the four hundred and sixty-second time that no magic is permitted in the corridors.” As if anyone ever followed that rule, Harry thought. It almost wasn’t worth having. “Also, an extensive list of forbidden items is posted on his office door. Tryouts for house Quidditch Teams will take place the second week of classes, and Professor Sprout has asked me to tell all of you to watch for announcements of a club dedicated to the new broomstick sport, Ricochet, which was exhibitioned here last spring.

“You have no doubt noticed that we’ve had a number of changes in staff this year. First, please welcome our three foreign dignitaries who have joined us this year as part of an International Confederation of Wizards mission. Returning from last year is former Minister for Magic of Australia Edward Grayson, and joining him are the Chinese Seer Fan Tong and her aide, Chang Jie, and the American wandmaker Old Coyote.” There was polite applause for the guests as they stood. “While we don’t have as many exciting events as last year, each of these three distinguished magic users will be giving seminars this year in their respective fields of expertise. In addition to this, I am pleased to announce that Professor Grayson has also agreed to serve as this year’s Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor.”

Harry’s jaw dropped as the students applauded. The set books for Defence this year certainly looked interesting, but he’d never imagined Grayson would be their new teacher. In retrospect, though, he supposed he should have known that Grayson, as a veteran of Grindelwald’s War, would have set a book about it. Well, he was certainly eager to see that class.

“Next, please welcome back Professor Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking over as Groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures Professor while Professor Hagrid is on leave,” Dumbledore continued. There was more polite applause for her. “And I must announce that Professor Trelawney will also be on leave this year. She will still be in the castle, but she has requested a sabbatical to pursue a one-year apprenticeship with Madam Fan. In the meantime, Divination Class will be taught by Professor Firenze.” He motioned to the centaur.

“And finally,” he said, “most of you will know by now that our own wandmaker, Garrick Ollivander, closed his shop in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago out of safety concerns. Mr. Ollivander will also be staying with us in the castle this year while his family runs his shop in Hogsmeade. What you may _not_ know is that this year, we have broken with tradition and asked the first year students not to purchase a wand before coming to Hogwarts. Instead, the first years will receive their wands in a Wand-Matching Ceremony over the weekend, modelled on those of the American magical schools. I encourage anyone who is having problems with their wand or who wishes to buy a new wand to speak with Mr. Ollivander before classes begin. And now, off to bed with you.”

There was a great clattering as everyone pushed back from the tables. “First years follow us, please!” Hermione called, and about twenty-five small-looking children lined up behind her and Harry.

“Blimey, were we ever that tiny?” Harry asked.

“Of course we were, Harry. Come along, all of you. Don’t wander off. The castle changes sometimes. You don’t want to get lost.”

They led the first years up to the Common Room, and the rest of the students went up to bed, but Harry and Hermione kept them around for a short talk. Not all prefects did this, but many considered it good practice.

“Welcome to Gryffindor,” Hermione told them, “My name is Hermione Granger, and this is my brother, Harry Potter.”

Most of the first years looked up at Harry in awe. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” he said, “so I want to get a few of the most common ones out of the way now so you don’t have to ask them later: Yes I am _the_ Harry Potter. Yes, I did fight Voldemort. Yes, he is a scary, evil son of a bitch, and I barely got away from him with my life. Unfortunately, Cedric Diggory wasn’t so lucky. Yes, I can turn into a cat. No, I will not show you. Okay?”

The kids nodded, looking a little intimidated. “Good. Now, Gryffindor is the house of the brave, the chivalrous, and, admittedly on occasion, the foolish,” he continued. “We Gryffindors are the sort to stand up in the face of overwhelming odds, to help those in need, to fight for right, no matter the cost. But we can also have a tendency for theatrics, for self-righteousness, and for a certain arrogance, thinking we’re better than everyone else—not all of us, but it’s common enough. Sometimes it’s all of the above. Sometimes it’s none of the above, but it is something to keep an eye out for.”

“What we’re saying is that no house is all good or all bad,” Hermione took over. “But what we _are_ is family. We stand up for each other. We protect each other. If any of you has a problem, you can come talk to Harry or me, one of the other prefects, or Professor McGonagall—whomever you feel comfortable with—and we’ll do our best to support you.”

“Yes, but we also expect to see good behaviour,” Harry said. “We’ll especially be watching out for bullying, and I bring that up specifically because we’re living in such tense times. You remember what the Sorting Hat said. We must stand united not just as Gryffindor, but as Hogwarts. We’re all in this together, so we don’t want to see anyone dividing us.”

Harry could tell some of them wanted to protest, probably regarding the Slytherins, but a lot of the others seemed to be agreeing with him. That was a good sign to start the year.

“Okay, then,” Hermione finished up. “Girls’ dorms are up the left-hand staircase, boys’ dorms on the right. You’ll both be four flights up from the Common Room, and the doors are marked for First Year. Boys are _not_ allowed in the girls’ dorms. Don’t try it. It is _not_ pretty.”

“What about girls in the boys’ dorm?” one of the girls said, eliciting giggles from several others.

“We can’t stop you. There’s no spell to stop it because…the Founders thought girls were more responsible, I guess,” Hermione said, “but we do not encourage it, and we expect you not to abuse the privilege.”

“Any other questions, and you can ask us in the morning,” Harry said. “And remember, it takes a while to find your way around the castle. If you get lost, stop and ask for directions right away. Otherwise, you might not find your way back until supper.”

“Alright, I’m sure you’re tired, so head up to bed. Your trunks will already be up there. Good night,” Hermione finished.

The firsties all dispersed, leaving Harry and Hermione alone in the Common Room. “Well, so far so good,” Harry said.


	6. Fifth Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Quoth the Raven, “JK Rowling.”
> 
> Part of this chapter is quoted from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Harry and Hermione stopped short when they saw the notice on the bulletin board the next morning:

 

_Gallons of Galleons!_

_Pocket money failing to keep pace with your outgoings?_

_Like to earn a little extra gold?_

_Contact Fred and George Weasley,_

_Gryffindor common room,_

_For simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs_

_(We regret that all work is undertaken at applicant_ _’s own risk.)_

“Oh, I cannot believe them,” Hermione said.

“I can,” Harry replied. “This is totally something they’d do.” But he ripped down the notice just the same. “I think I may regret asking Sirius to invest in their joke shop.”

“C’mon, we’ll see if we can talk to them at breakfast,” she sighed, “and tell any firsties we see not to trust them.”

Sure enough, the Weasley Twins were easily spotted at breakfast. Harry and Hermione took a page from their book and sat on either side of them. “We need to talk, boys,” Hermione said.

The Twins looked back and forth between the two of them. “It seems we’ve attracted the prefects’ attention on the first day, George,” said Fred.

“Indubitably, Fred,” said George. “That may be a record.”

“Nah, Percy’s still got them beat. So what do you want to talk about?”

“Interested in buying our products?”

“No, to talk about this notice,” Harry said, holding up the parchment for them to see.

“You can’t experiment on the first years!” Hermione said.

“Oi! We never said first years only,” Fred protested.

“Yes, but everyone else in Gryffindor knows better,” Harry said.

“Well, we’re not experimenting on the first years anyway,” George said.

“We experiment on ourselves,” they said in unison.

“Yeah, right, then what do you need testers for?” Harry demanded.

“Oh, you know, calibrating dosages, making sure they work the same on everyone. We want to have quality products ready when it comes time to sell them.”

“That sounds an awful lot like experimenting to me,” Hermione said. “In the muggle world, we have rigorous safety standards for testing products like this. I’m sure there are standards for edible prank products in the magical world, too. You need to back up and do it properly.”

“Yeah, and we know you’ve got the money, so you don’t have an excuse there,” Harry agreed. “If you call this off, I’ll talk to Sirius about looking into the official rules.”

Fred and George stared at each other for a moment and quickly whispered back and forth.

“Alright, then,” Fred said grudgingly.

“You’ve got a deal,” George finished.

“But don’t think this means you’re off the hook for pranks.”

Harry rolled his eyes. After knowing Sirius and Remus for four years, pranks didn’t scare him. Crisis averted, they went to their breakfast, interrupted only by a special announcement from Dumbledore.

“May I have you attention, please?” the Headmaster said. “As I mentioned last night, first year students will be given their wands in a special wand-matching ceremony this weekend. Mr. Ollivander will be set up here in the Great Hall between meals to sell wands. Students who wish to receive their wands in a public ceremony are asked to come today, and tomorrow morning if necessary. Those of you who wish to be matched to a wand in private will be able to do so tomorrow afternoon.”

Harry and Hermione agreed that they would go in tomorrow to get their backup wands in private since they didn’t want it widely known that they had them, but they would still watch the public part of the “ceremony” today. They hadn’t had a lot of exposure to wand lore, and they thought they might be able to pick up a thing or two by watching Mr. Ollivander match a few more children.

Shortly after breakfast, the House Tables were cleared away, and a mess of tables and shelves were assembled into an approximation of the layout of Ollivander’s shop right in the middle of the Hall—except more compacted. Instead of being in individual boxes, the wands were all laid out on the tables side by side and had little tags tied to them.

“Welcome to the Wand Matching,” Ollivander announced to those who had stayed behind to watch. “This is a new ceremony, but similar to an old on in America. I’m told that in the American schools, students would just run their hands over the wands until they found the one that called to them, but I think we can speed that along a bit, don’t you? Having a good wandmaker to help you makes it much easier to find the wand for you. Now, all Ollivander wands are made with one of three supreme magical substances…”

Ollivander spent some time expounding on his wands and the basics of wand lore. The first years seems enraptured by the fantastic description of magic. Finally, when he had finished extemporising, he called forth the first customer, and little Euan Abercrombie, the first new Gryffindor of the year, ran forward in excitement.

It took Ollivander three tries to find the wand for the boy. Euan waved it, producing a shower of golden sparks. “Aha! Poplar and phoenix feather, ten inches. Reasonably supple,” Ollivander declared. “A fine wand for a fine young man. My own grandfather always said ‘If you seek integrity, search first among the poplars.’”

Euan thanked Ollivander with wide eyes and ran back to his seat while the next student came forward. Harry and Hermione soon realised that Ollivander must have organised his wands in some way. He himself ran his fingers over them as he regarded each child, unlike how he worked in his shop. However, he always started in a different place on the shelves. Sometimes, when he didn’t get a match with the first few wands, he would have the student come closer and run their hands over small batches of them, which usually took care of it. Harry and Hermione hadn’t seen enough wands matched to know, but the Weasleys said it was going much faster than usual.

There was only one student who was a particularly difficult match, a strawberry blond girl named Margaret Munch, who was soft-spoken, but had nonetheless been Sorted into Gryffindor. Harry and Hermione took special note of her as her matching dragged on, remembering the significance of Harry’s own wand matching. After Ollivander tried well over a dozen different types of wands with the girl, Old Coyote came forward to help.

“I think you may be barking up the wrong tree, Garrick,” he said gently.

“Oh?” Ollivander sounded slightly offended. “And what tree do you think I should be barking up, Master Coyote?”

“I cannot be certain yet, but if you seek the answer, you need only ask.” Old Coyote leaned close to Margaret and asked, “Where are you from, child?”

“Aberdeen, sir…but I was born in Scandinavia.”

“Ah, of course!” Ollivander said. “I should have seen it. I should have been focusing more on non-native woods. Let’s see.” He looked her in the eye with a strange sort of stare. “Spruce!” he declared. A few moments later, had had a match for her: “Spruce and dragon heart string, twelve and a half inches, quite flexible.”

Margaret waved it, and a fountain of multicoloured sparks shot out, startling her and making her jump back.

“Ah, yes, I thought that might happen,” Ollivander said with a chuckle. “That’s a tricky wand you have there, Miss Munch. You need great confidence, and above all, a steady hand to wield it well.”

Margaret examined the wand in her hand warily, but after a minute’s consideration, she tightened her grip around it and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Ollivander, she said, and she returned to her friends in Gryffindor.

* * *

Harry and Hermione approached Ollivander the following afternoon, after all the first years had bought their wands. They weren’t the only students to buy new wands of their own, although they didn’t know if any of the others were buying backup wands like they were or just replacements.

“Ah, Lord Potter and Miss Granger,” the wandmaker said. “What brings you to my temporary shop? Your wands are still working well, I hope?”

“Well, I made it through the Tetrawizard Tournament with mine, Mr. Ollivander,” Harry said, “so I guess it’s pretty good. But with Voldemort being back, both of us wanted to buy backup wands.”

Ollivander cocked an eyebrow, but he eyed them carefully and soon nodded in understanding. “Quite understandable. But that is a bit complicated,” he said. “Backup wands are tricky. They not only have to be compatible with you, but also with your first wands. Some wands don’t like to share, and there isn’t really anything you can do about that. You’ll just never get as good results with another. And both of you have unusually strong matches, so it may be particularly difficult, but if you want to try it, I’ll do the best I can to help you.”

“We would, Mr. Ollivander,” Harry said.

“Alright. Well, ladies first. Come here, Miss Granger.”

Hermione stepped forward, and Ollivander measured her again with his enchanted tape measure. Old Coyote took particular interest in his work now, and Dumbledore also came to watch. Second wands were unusual and interesting sales for a wandmaker, so they wanted to see it personally. They watched as Ollivander offered Hermione wands of walnut, beech, and elm, but he found a surprise match for her in sycamore.

“Very interesting,” he said. “I wouldn’t have expected that if your first wand were beech or walnut, but as a complement to vine wood, it fits well.” She gave him a questioning look. “You see, a sycamore wand is easily bored, Miss Granger,” he continued. “It’s not content to sit still, nor will it choose an owner who is. It always seeks to move forward and is eager for new experiences.”

“Huh,” Hermione said. Clearly, that wasn’t what she was expecting.

“That sounds kind of like you, Mione,” Harry offered. “I wouldn’t have thought it was your strongest trait, though.”

“Hm…maybe. I can see it, but…It’s not what I thought I’d get.”

Ollivander flashed a knowing smile and explained, “Wand often go in ways you don’t expect. Remember, all the other aspects of a wand will influence the natural traits of the wood—the core, the length, and especially the flexibility. Secondary or hidden personality traits often come to the fore during a wand matching. Some people even I don’t understand their match, but there is always a reason. Now, come here, Lord Potter, and let’s see what new surprises you have in store.”

For Harry, Ollivander remembered the difficulty of finding his first wand and skipped trying to match him himself and just had him run his fingers over the wands from the start. He focused on martial wands like aspen and blackthorn, but both he and Harry were surprised when a pear wood and unicorn hair wand jumped in Harry’s hand with an odd twitch.

“Pear?” the wandmaker said, sounding genuinely surprised. “Pear…” He regarded Harry carefully with those piercing silver eyes. Harry couldn’t help but think they looked a lot better on Luna. “Yes…I think I can see that in you. I told you a wand matching can bring out hidden traits, and that one is buried deep, but it’s there.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Ollivander?” Harry said. “What’s so special about pear?”

“I don’t describe many wands as ‘stay-at-home wands’, Lord Potter, but pear wood is perhaps the nearest to it. It speaks to people whose natures are often warm-hearted, generous, wise, certainly resilient, and dare I say incorruptible…But it is not a wand I expect to see in the hands of a warrior—though its owner can certainly fight when called to. It is much more a wand for a quiet life.”

Harry frowned as he waved the wand a couple times. It worked well for him, but… “It doesn’t feel right,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

“It works, but…it’s like it’s not giving me the power I need,” he said.

“It’s not going to be the wand, Lord Potter,” Ollivander said. “Pear wood is especially good at holding up to heavy use. Why, Arthur Weasley bought a pear wand from me thirty-four years ago, and it still looks practically as fine as the day I sold it to him. Hm…it may be the the wand’s gentle nature is resisting your more aggressive personality.”

Harry’s eyes flashed at him. “The fact that I’m part of this war, you mean,” he said. It was true, he had an aggressive streak from his feline side. The cat in its natural state was a flawless instrument of death in the sight of its prey, but he knew instinctively that that wasn’t the reason. “I think…if I could be ‘just Harry’, I think it would be a good fit, but for the Chosen One, it’s not,” he reasoned. Somehow, he understood that the wand was calling to the part of him that truly wanted to settle down and live a quiet life—a desire that he didn’t like to admit even to himself because it was just easier not to, and one he could never hope to attain until Voldemort was dead. _Neither can live while the other survives,_ he thought.

Ollivander nodded in agreement. “I think I understand.” He took the wand from Harry and put it in a place apart from all the others. “Lord Potter, this is quite unusual, but I am going to save this wand for you. I think that someday, when this war is over, this may yet be the wand for you. This is a very rare occurrence, understand. My grandfather did it for Headmaster Dumbledore. I’ve done it twice before in my own career: once for Minister for Magic Wilhelmina Tuft after she lost her wand in Grindelwald’s War, and once for Lucius Malfoy, oddly enough.” That didn’t make Harry feel better, and it only made it worse when Ollivander thought for a minute and added, “Hm, now that I think of it, none of those three wands have ever been claimed.”

“Er…they haven’t?” Harry said uncomfortably.

“Well, Minister Tuft died in office,” he said. “Lord Malfoy uses an heirloom wand, and the Headmaster…Albus, why haven’t you ever claimed your reserved wand?” he asked, turning to Dumbledore.

“My current wand serves me just fine, Garrick,” Dumbledore replied with a smile.

“Of course. A Gregorovich, isn’t it? From Grindelwald’s War? Well, no matter. Perhaps you will be the one to break the trend, Lord Potter. Now, let’s find you a wand you can use now.”

It took a while longer to do that. The backup wand Harry finally found was a “springy” cedar and phoenix feather one, which seemed to please Ollivander. “Yes, now _that_ _’s_ what we’re looking for,” he said. “That is a wand for support for your main one, Lord Potter. Not as much of a complement—more of a subordinate, but it will serve you well. My father always said, ‘You will never fool the cedar carrier.’ They are most often paired with wizards with great instincts, and you certainly have that.”

Harry nodded in agreement, feeling a lot better about this wand than the other one: “I can work with that.”

* * *

Harry whistled when he saw the schedule for the first day of classes: “History, double Potions, Arithmancy, and double Defence. Gonna be a long day.”

“Wishing you had a Skiving Snackbox now?” Fred asked.

“ _No_ ,” Hermione said. “Even if we were so inclined, Snape would never let us skive off, and we want to be there for the other classes.”

“Yeah, I want to see what Mooney came up with this year,” Harry agreed. “He spent all last year catching us up. We can finally have a real History class the way it was intended for once.”

Hermione hummed her agreement before picking up a newspaper where, below the stories of the latest Death Eater sightings, the headline read, _MUGGLE BOMB HITS YUGOSLAV MINISTRY FIELD OFFICE; FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED_. Below that was another headline: _EBOLA CONFIRMED AMONG BELGIAN MUGGLES; WHAT WILL THIS MEAN FOR WIZARDS?_

“Trouble happening everywhere these days, isn’t it?” Fred said darkly.

“I suppose,” she said. “I don’t think it’s as bad as it sounds, though. The Ebola was only seen in aid workers returning from Zaire, and the bombing is in response to war crimes in muggle Bosnia. They’re not really connected.”

“I dunno,” Ron said. “Dad’s been saying there’s a storm coming—like last time. Azkaban was just the start. And with You-Know-Who working with foreign wizards, it could get _bad_.”

“Yes, but we’ve got foreign wizards on our side too, Ron,” Harry said, trying to sound optimistic. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

“I dunno. I hope you’re right, mate.”

History class was with the Slytherins again, but Harry and Hermione weren’t too worried, since they hadn’t caused much trouble in this class last year. Indeed, Remus’s lessons with the ghosts, which had revealed just how biased the pureblood view of magical history had become after the Statute of Secrecy, seemed to have really got them to think.

“Welcome to O.W.L.-level History,” Remus greeted them. “I have to say I’m eager to teach this class properly for the first time, and I hope you are, too. Now that I’ve caught you up on _A History of Magic_ as much as I could, it’s time to move on and give you the citizenship education that all of us _should_ have been getting for the past fifty years. This year, we will be studying magical history from Grindelwald’s War to the present in the context of the current political and cultural state of Magical Britain. Along the way, we will also be studying other topics regarding how to be a good citizen of the wizarding world, including understanding the structure of our government and economic system, our rights as wizards, relations with other countries, and even how to manage personal finances. And yes, we will also be discussing current events in the context of government, politics, and history.”

“Isn’t this class supposed to be non-political, Professor?” Malfoy spoke up. It wasn’t hard to guess that this kind of education wasn’t particularly in the purebloods’ interest, and probably not the Dark Lord’s either.

“That is correct, Mr. Malfoy,” he replied unreservedly. “We won’t shy away from controversial topics in this class, including issues related to the war, but I will endeavour to address them in a neutral manner. Naturally, my own politics are no secret, as are many of yours, especially in this class, but I expect everyone here to be respectful of each other’s points of view and, when the matter comes up, to back up your positions with reasoned arguments. If, after that, you feel I am being unfair in any way, you can take it up with your Head of House.”

Malfoy and the other Slytherins looked wary—warier than they had during most of last year. To be honest, Harry and Hermione were, too. Despite Harry’s efforts in the Wizengamot, they still weren’t used to how the political discourse in the magical world still sounded like racist discourse from the mid-1800s sometimes, and even beyond that, it was a good guess that someone like Malfoy’s _true_ views on the war were outright seditious. The Wizengamot managed debates like this without devolving into honour duels, but the Wizengamot had decades of experience and no hotheaded muggle-borns in its ranks.

“Now, in many ways, the current political conflict has its roots in Grindelwald’s War,” Remus continued. “Today, Grindelwald is known mostly for his brutality and his use of dark magic. But you don’t lead an army just by being a thug, even a very powerful thug. Grindelwald became who he was because of his _ideology_. We touched on this at the end of last term, but I want to explore how it has shaped the world since then. Does anyone remember what his ideology was? Miss Greengrass?”

“‘For the Greater Good,’” Daphne answered.

“Not quite. That was his slogan, but it wasn’t his philosophy. Mr. Zabini, what did Grindelwald consider to be the ‘Greater Good’?”

“He wanted to take over the wizard and muggle worlds and rule over the muggles,” Zabini said.

“Correct. More specifically, Grindelwald wanted to do away with the Statute of Secrecy. He believed that wizards should not hide themselves away from muggles. Instead, we should rule over them with our magic. And—this was the crucial point—he believed that both wizards and muggles would benefit as a result—muggles benefiting from magic, and we benefiting from the service of their greater numbers. When Headmaster Dumbledore defeated him, his ideas were pretty well discredited, but during the war they were attractive to many wizards, which is how he built his army so successfully.”

“Was that a pureblood thing like today, Professor?” Dean Thomas asked, earning glares from the Slytherins.

“ _No,_ Mr. Thomas,” Remus said. “It cut _across_ those political lines, which is why Grindelwald was the most successful dark lord of this century. His philosophy was attractive to many different people for different reasons. There were those purebloods who feared muggles and wished to bring them to heel—that’s a very old position that goes back to before the Statute of Secrecy itself. He attracted them easily. But there were also muggle-borns in his ranks—particularly German muggleborns—who felt that a closer relationship with the muggle world would raise their own status. Remember, this was before Britain’s first muggle-born Minister, before the squibs’ rights marches, before the liberalisation that the Knights of Walpurgis claimed to oppose. In the 1940s, discrimination based on blood status was considerably more overt than it is today. You can see how it would be an attractive notion for them as well.

“Of course, Grindelwald was opposed by many. Most of the wizarding world still wanted the Statute of Secrecy and still does today. MACUSA still had Rappaport’s Law at the time, which was the strictest secrecy law passed by a major magical government in history. Even here in Britain, look at the names of the leaders allied against Grindelwald: Albus Dumbledore. Abraxas Malfoy.” He looked pointedly at Draco. “Henry Potter.” He turned to Harry. “Leonard Spencer-Moon, a half-blood who was good friends with the muggle Minister Churchill.” He looked at Lily Moon. “Wilhelmina Tuft. Nobby Leach, who would become our first muggle-born Minister. Harfang and Callidora Longbottom. Victor Emmanuel Zabini, a defector from Grindelwald’s forces—not a list you would expect to see today.

“I want to explore how this debate led into the issues that gripped the country after Grindelwald’s War and ultimately created the climate that led to the rise of You-Know-Who in the seventies.” Remus wasn’t afraid to say Voldemort’s name, but unlike Dumbledore, he was deferential to the comfort of his students and didn’t say it in class, not least because he knew his job at the school was precarious. (Dumbledore was disappointed, but he didn’t stop him.) “But I want you to remember these names as this year goes on—and not just for your marks—to remember just how much things can change in a generation.”

* * *

Potions and Arithmancy were difficult, but uneventful. Snape was in a worse mood than usual, but given his status as a reactivated spy, Harry couldn’t blame him. Since Snape had privately confided to him that he was absolutely on the side of the Light, he didn’t take it personally.

Meanwhile, the other class that much of the school was eager for was Defence. It looked like they would be getting a double dose of Grindelwald’s War this year, since Professor Grayson was an actual veteran of that war and had set a book on it for the reading.

Defence class was with the Ravenclaws this year, which was definitely better than the Slytherins. They had muggle-borns Terry Boot and Kevin Entwhistle; Mandy Brocklehurst, who was from a nominally-neutral family which had trended more pro-muggle in recent years; and no obvious pureblood bigots. Michael Corner was the most disagreeable of the bunch, and he was still basically alright.

Grayson started the class by writing the course title on the board, then turning to the students. “Defence Against the Dark Arts,” he said, laying his Australian accent on thick. “It’s a nice, feel-good name. Light and Dark. Good and Evil. It’s a name that says you’re fighting against evil, dark magic, _and_ it’s a name that says the magic you’re learning is nice and good and wholesome. But the thing is…neither of those things is true!

“You can kill someone with _Aguamenti_ by drowning them. A Hover Charm can kill if you drop something heavy on someone’s head. Even a Cheering Charm, while it can’t normally kill, if you put enough power behind it, you can make them laugh till they pass out. Very, _very_ few spells, like the Patronus Charm and the _Riddikulus_ Charm, are pure light; and plenty of dangerous or destructive magic isn’t dark, even by the loosest of standards.

“Some people like to talk about magic being ‘grey’, but they’re missing the point. The philosophy isn’t important. Magic is magic, and bad people are going to use it to do bad things. My job is to teach you how to protect yourselves against those bad people. That’s why at Uluru and a lot of other schools, we just call it ‘Defensive Magic’.”

Su Li looked up at Professor Grayson with a very sour look on her face and cleared her throat. “But what good is that against You-Know-Who, Professor?” she demanded.

“You-Know-Who? It’s not about Voldemort in particular, Miss Li,” he said. Unlike Remus, he had no reservations about speaking Voldemort’s name in class. “It’s about defending yourself against any threat, large or small.”

“But what good is that when he’s still out there?”

Grayson titled his head. “I’m not sure I understand your question.”

“My brother was murdered at Azkaban, Professor,” Su said angrily. “He was burned to death by You-Know-Who’s fire powers. No one could stop him, not even Dumbledore. How do we fight against that?”

Grayson leaned back a bit and nodded thoughtfully. Most people knew by now why Su was withdrawn and bitter this year, but it was a little jarring to see her take it out on a teacher. “You’re right, Miss Li,” he said, “there are situations you can’t win…But you’ll never get anywhere if you despair of that fact and don’t fight to the very end. Voldemort can’t be everywhere at once, and he’d be a fool to go up against an army alone. Yes, if you find yourself attacked by him alone, the best course of action, if you can, is to Apparate away very fast. But if you’re with a hundred other half-decent duellists, that changes things. So _that_ _’s_ how you fight against him.

“War is different from most situations where you’ll use defensive magic,” he spoke to the entire class now. “Most fights are like duelling with fewer rules—one on one, or at most a few on a few—and that’s normally as far as your education would go. But in war, you have to be able to fight in large numbers and with complex strategy. More wars are won that way than with raw power. I’ve done that in my service against Grindelwald and just over a year ago in East Africa, and _that_ is what I’m bringing to your education this year—or did you think I set Esterhazy’s _Memoirs_ for nothing? So yes, Miss Li, I do believe I can help you fight against Voldemort, but only as part of a larger force.”

Su backed down and meekly nodded. The class could feel the power Grayson was radiating during his speech. They had heard he was as powerful as Dumbledore and quicker to use it, but not all of them believed it until they met him up close. However, in today’s class, he didn’t start by talking about large-scale strategy. Today was about the basic tactics of surviving a fight: shielding, dodging, and (even less commonly-addressed), finding cover. They didn’t do much physical practice in the classroom, but he promised that they would be going outside for the next class and doing various drills throughout the year. It definitely looked like this would be the most hands-on Defence class they’d ever had.

* * *

Barty Crouch Junior (legal name David Monroe) easily weaved between the slower hexes of his sparring partner. “Come on, Gilly, you’ll have to do better than that if you want to get by around here,” he taunted.

“Stop calling me that!” Gilderoy Lockhart growled.

“Make me!”

Gilderoy Lockhart’s normally-flawless hair was a mess, sticking out everywhere and flopping into his eyes. He was sweating and out of breath as he tried to land a hex on his tutor. Barty had been a year ahead of him at Hogwarts and at the top of his class, so he was the ideal choice—except for the fact that he was a slave-driver. “Okay,” he panted. “Okay, I admit I’m out of practice—”

“You’re not out of practice, Gilly,” Barty sneered. “You were never _in_ practice. I watched you in school. You were brilliant, but you never tried anything unless it was the easiest way or it made you look impressive. You can’t do that in the service of the Dark Lord; you have to pull your weight.” He dodged another pathetic salvo of jinxes, half of which fizzled on Gilderoy’s wand. “Wow, did you _actually_ forget everything you learnt in school except Memory Charms?”

“I’ve been in Azkaban!” Gilderoy snapped.

“So have a lot of people. You should consider yourself lucky. The Dark Lord could have asked Bellatrix to teach you.”

Gilderoy shuddered and redoubled his efforts. His charms work might still be abysmal, but he wasn’t going anywhere near that woman if he could help it.

* * *

The rank-and-file Aurors had not yet had much contact with the muggle government, despite the need for magical protection of the Royal Family, the Prime Minister, and other top muggle officials. However, thanks to Prime Minister Major’s proactive moves, it was a lot easier for members of the magical community to get in contact with the muggle government, which still generally considered them the Queen’s loyal subjects.

Of course, it was still difficult to get in touch with the Royal Court Magician, but Tonks had connections, and it was time to use them. The Ministry was on high alert, and after Azkaban, she decided she personally needed to step up her game, so here she was.

“Auror ‘Tonks, no really, just Tonks’ to see you, sir,” she was introduced by the butler in Maxwell Barnett’s sitting room. A human butler! She didn’t think she’d ever seen one in person before.

“Good morning, Auror,” Barnett greeted her. “I must admit this is a surprise. How may I help you?”

“Harry Potter referred me to you, Master Barnett,” she said. “I need to learn Occlumency.”


	7. Catnip!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is catnip to JK Rowling (or at least to Warner Bros.—money and all that).

The first week of classes was uneventful for Harry except for one thing: the whispers behind his back were back with a vengeance. This was somewhat to be expected. He _was_ Harry Potter, after all. But something didn’t quite seem right. By the end of the week, he had begun seeing other students, especially girls, staring as him with strange, disappointed, and oddly sympathetic looks, then looking away quickly when he looked in their direction. A number of Slytherins began smirking at him whenever they saw him, which was a suspicious change from that set’s usual scowls.

It came to a head that weekend. They had just finished a very successful Quidditch tryout. The starting squad was the same as last year and was poised to dominate the pitch. Even Ron, who had been their weak link last year in the Northern European Academic Tournament, had hit his stride quickly.

Harry was just meeting Luna for a lazy afternoon in the sun when he saw her talking to one of her roommates. Since this was one of her roommates who didn’t actually like her, he was immediately on alert.

“—too bad you can’t get a _real_ man to date you, Loony, instead of being stuck with that—” She whispered something Harry couldn’t hear.

“You shouldn’t believe every rumour you hear, Melanie,” Luna told her.

Melanie laughed derisively. “ _You_ _’re_ saying that, Loony? Why? Have you ever actually _seen_ them?”

“No, but I trust Harry. He wouldn’t keep something like that from me.”

“Of course not,” Harry spoke up, making Melanie jump a little. “Hello, Luna. What’s up?” He kissed her lightly.

“Hello, Harry,” Luna said. “I was trying to help Melanie with a serious wrackspurt infestation, but she doesn’t seem interested.”

“Hmm, not much you can do for someone who doesn’t want to be helped,” Harry said.

Melanie sneered—not at Luna, but at Harry, as if he were beneath her. “Don’t come crying to me when you figure out the truth, Loony,” she said as she walked away.

“Is there something I should know?” he asked with concern.

“It’s not important, Harry,” Luna assured him. “Let’s go for a walk.”

However, the whispers continued, now accompanied by snide remarks, mostly from Slytherins like, “Give it up, you’re not fooling anyone, Potter,” which Harry honestly had no clue what they were talking about.

Then came Eddie Carmichael, a fifth-year Ravenclaw who was very bright, but apparently short on street smarts, who decided to make a pass at Luna in the Entrance Hall before dinner the next day, _right where Harry could see him_.

“So, Lovegood, I heard your boyfriend’s coming up a little short,” he said. “If you want to ditch him as a bad job, I might be persuaded to show you a _real_ good time.”

Harry quickly stepped between Luna and Carmichael, his face flushed with anger. “Uh, _hello_ , I’m right _here!_ ” he said. “Stay away from my girlfriend, Carmichael.”

Carmichael gave Harry a condescending look and replied, “I think it’s Lovegood’s business whether she wants to stay with someone who used to be a muggle house pet just for his money, Potter.”

 _What?_ “What the hell are you on about?” he demanded. He glanced around and saw people gathering around and whispering to each other.

“Look, do I have to spell it out for you?” Carmichael said. “You’re an animagus. And you were raised by muggles. In fact, you say you were found by a muggle family…as a _cat_. You were a pet. Don’t you know what muggles _do_ to their pets…? They _neuter_ them.”

A few people gasped, but half the crowd already seemed to know. Harry twitched. A storm of emotions welled up in him, and he involuntarily released a pulse of magic so powerful that the torches flared with sparks, and the entire crowd took a step back. He was about to blast Carmichael into the wall without thinking when he heard a soft sigh behind him and felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see Luna looking up at him sadly.

“I was hoping there wouldn’t have to be any trouble from these rumours, Harry,” she said.

So she knew, too. That was just like her to bottle it up. He sighed in return and took her hands in his. “Luna, I know you don’t like causing confrontations like this, but this is a matter of house honour,” he told her. “I lose a lot of face politically by not answering this, not to mention exposing my family to potential revenge attacks for supposedly ending the House of Potter. I’m sorry, but I have to do this.” He whirled around and drew his wand. “Edward Carmichael, _I demand satisfaction!_ ”

“Mr. Potter!” came the voice of Professor McGonagall, and Harry noticed that several of the teachers had now joined the crowd.

“Professor,” he said, not lowering his wand. “Mr. Carmichael has insulted me with the most scandalous of rumours. As Lord Potter, I cannot let them go unanswered. Also—” He scanned the crowd. “—if this hits the _Daily Prophet_ , an honour duel will be the least of your worries.”

“Point of order, Potter,” a smarmy voice called out, and Draco Malfoy stepped forward. He glared at him, but Malfoy didn’t seem to care. “Isn’t it a valid question?” he asked. “You admit to spending time as a muggle house pet, and that _is_ standard practice amongst muggles, isn’t it?”

“I showed my family I was human the first day I met them, Malfoy,” he snapped. “There wasn’t time to take me to a vet.”

“But we only have you’re word on that, Potter, and as you said, you have an interest in protecting your family.”

“Dumbledore will vouch for me, too.” Harry made his voice sound as manly as possible and added, “Besides, I think my tone of voice would answer that question on its own.” Some of the girls around him giggled.

“Lord Potter, Heir Malfoy,” McGonagall used the formal terms to get their attention. “I don’t think this conversation is appropriate for school.”

“I’m just trying to resolve the dispute amicably and by the book, Professor,” Malfoy said.

“Amicably my arse, Malfoy,” said Harry. “How do I know you didn’t start those rumours?”

Malfoy flashed a grin that told him he totally did it, but would never admit it. “You don’t have any proof of such a claim, _Lord_ Potter,” he replied, “just as we have no proof of your grievance. After all, just speaking hypothetically, _if_ you suffered from that problem, a Healer could fix your voice, and add muscle mass, and even repair the… _cosmetic_ damage. There would just be that pesky issue of producing an heir.”

Harry glared at him: “Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait a couple decades for me to have some kids to prove you wrong.”

“Don’t have to wait that long!” a voice called.

“Romilda!” Hermione yelled.

“Miss Vane!” McGonagall said.

Harry grumbled under his breath about stalkers and turned back to his original opponent. “As I said, Mr. Carmichael, Dumbledore will vouch for my story. My grievance stands. Do you apologise?”

Carmichael narrowed his eyes at him, trying to determine his chances. Harry knew there was some risk here. If Carmichael accepted the duel and called for no wandless magic, he’d lose some face, but he might be the better duellist under those conditions. Harry could probably still beat him by using both wands, but while it wasn’t exactly a secret that he had a backup wand, but he didn’t want to reveal it publicly so soon.

“Dude, don’t do it,” Marcus Belby told Carmichael. “He duelled You-Know-Who and lived.”

Carmichael’s eyes widened, and he paled a shade or two, and new whispers swept around the Entrance Hall. Another moment’s consideration, and he conceded: “I apologise, Lord Potter, for accusing you of such scandalous rumours.”

“And for trying to steal my girlfriend.” That was a slight breach of etiquette. A mere girlfriend didn’t have the House protection that a fiancée or wife had—at least not unless he formally extended her house protection, which would effectively be a declaration of intent. But Harry was too annoyed to care right now.

“Fine, I’m sorry for trying to steal your loony girlfriend, too,” Carmichael said.

Harry heard people murmuring about that, but he looked to Luna, who subtly shook her head. They both knew he couldn’t issue another grievance for that. “Apology accepted,” he said reluctantly.

Many of the onlookers relaxed, especially the teachers. “I’m glad to see we could resolve that,” McGonagall said. “Mr. Carmichael, ten points from Ravenclaw for provoking a fight. Miss Vane, ten points from Gryffindor for highly inappropriate behaviour. And I’m not happy with you either, Mr. Potter, but you did technically follow protocol. Now, I suggest you all get to supper before anything else happens.”

The crowd entered the Great Hall. Harry went quietly, but he did look back at Malfoy and make an _“I’m watching you”_ gesture at him.

* * *

“Alright, everyone,” Hermione said, “welcome to the new Ricochet Club.” Since most of the committee that had invented the game of Ricochet last year were starting Quidditch players, Hermione, to her own surprise, had found herself running the new club. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with her role, but she would do her best. “I think most of you saw the exhibition game last spring between Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang, but for those of you who don’t know, Ricochet is a new broomstick game that a group of us created during the Tournament last year. It was inspired by Swivenhodge and muggle tennis, but we really built it from the ground up—no pun intended—and it’s a lot different from both of them.”

They had a pretty good turnout—about twenty people. Unsurprisingly, they were disproportionately younger students who couldn’t get on the Quidditch teams and muggle-borns who were more likely to see the appeal of a racket game and who were interested in any kind of flying.

“A lot of you might be familiar with Swivenhodge,” Hermione continued, “but Ricochet is quite a bit different. For one, it’s much, _much_ faster. And for another, you don’t use your broom bristles to play. You use one of these.” She held up a long-handled racket for them to see. “For muggle-borns, it’s a lot more like tennis, but the largest difference is that you have two hits to get the ball over the net.”

People nodded in understanding at the analogies, and Hermione motioned Harry forward. “So today, Harry and I will explain the rules and give a demonstration, and we’ll start working with you on some of the skills you’re going to need if we have time.”

“Right,” Harry confirmed. “Now, Ricochet is played with a racket and a small rubber ball like this one.” He tossed the scarlet-orange ball they had designed in the air.

“What’s it called?” someone called out.

He stopped and stared at them. “…a Ricochet ball?”

“That’s boring.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, you can name it something else if you want. The _game_ definitely isn’t boring.” Several people who had seen the exhibition game last spring nodded in agreement, though a few were sceptical. “Now, we won’t really do any flying today. I know, I know,” he said to their protests, “you came for the game, but for one, we only have one court right now, and for another, we wanted to start by showing you how to handle the rackets before we got in the air so we don’t have people flailing after balls all over the place. They’re a little trickier than Beaters’ bats.”

“Right,” Hermione agreed. She began handing out rackets and balls to the group. “Now, the rackets have to be custom-made as yet, so we don’t permanently have enough of them for everyone yet, but we had Cho, Fred, and George help transfigure some, so we should be set for this meeting.” The club began trying them out, bouncing the balls off the ground and off the rackets, surprised at how bouncy they were compared with a Quaffle or Bludger. “Keep in mind, you’re not hitting heavy iron balls around, so the club-like swings you use for Bludgers don’t really apply here. You still need power, but it’s much less stress on the wrist, so you can swing more for speed, like this.” She tossed a ball in the air and served it at a speed few Beaters could hope to match, to cheers from the club. She wandlessly summoned it back. Any doubts about the boringness of the game were largely forgotten.

The club went well overall, despite the fact that they didn’t really get to do much flying. Harry and Hermione played an exhibition game for them, which Harry won thanks to his cat-like reflexes and superior flying skills, although Hermione put up a good fight. They then helped their friends learn how to handle the rackets and started a few badminton-like practice games. Harry thought Hermione was doing a good job of leading it, and he thought they would probably have enough people to hold a tournament at the end of the year. It was nice to get off to a normal start for the school year, he thought, especially with the war on.

If only the rest of his week could go as smoothly.

* * *

Harry was used to getting some correspondence by now from his friends, but most of his post still went to his Wizengamot office in the care of Andromeda Tonks, who then forwarded anything she thought he needed to see directly. He almost never received packages at Hogwarts. His family were the only people who _would_ send him packages at school, and they usually gave him anything important during breaks or Hogsmeade weekends because it was safer that way.

So when a large box was delivered to his spot at the Gryffindor Table on Tuesday morning, Harry was naturally suspicious.

“It doesn’t say who it’s from,” he said. “Who would send me a package?”

“How did you even _get_ a package,” Neville asked. “I thought you had them all forwarded.”

“Not if it’s sent from inside the school, remember? But I don’t know who would send me something—at least when it’s not Valentine’s Day.”

“Better check it for traps,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry nodded and stood up, as did Hermione, and they both cast multiple charms at the box to detect any kind of magic or potions, and they all came up empty. “Huh, that’s strange,” he said. “It looks like it’s completely non-magical.”

“It could be hidden with a spell our charms can’t detect,” Hermione pointed out.

“But it was an internal delivery. None of the students would know how to fool those charms…Stand back, everyone.” Neville, Ron, Ginny, and Colin all rose from their seats and took a step back. Harry waved his wand slowly, and the package began to open…

 _Pop!_ Some spring-loaded mechanism burst open and spewed a cloud of finely-chopped green leaves all over the table. Harry jumped back, but some of them landed on his face, and an unmistakable scent reached his nostrils.

“Oh no,” he whispered in horror.

“What?” said Hermione.

“Catnip!”

“Oh, crap! Harry, you need to go to the—”

“Ha. Haha. HahahaHAHAHAHAHAAAA!” Harry started laughing uncontrollably and rubbed the leaves all over his face.

“Infirmary,” she groaned.

“Bloody hell!” Neville exclaimed.

Harry jumped on the table and dumped the entire box over his head, still laughing maniacally. To make matters worse, Professor McGonagall had taken notice and was hurrying to the Gryffindor Table.

“Mr. Potter! What on earth do you think you’re—?”

“Professor! Stay back! It’s catnip!” Hermione yelled, holding out her hand to stop her.

McGonagall paled and immediately conjured a handkerchief to place over her face and backed up to a safe distance. “Miss Granger, your brother needs to go to the infirmary immediately,” she said.

“I know!” Hermione yelled. She ran after Harry as he began jumping and spinning up and down the table, sending half of Gryffindor’s breakfast crashing to the floor. “Neville, Ron, help me!” The two boys tried to outflank Harry and pull him down, but he kept slipping through their fingers.

“You said he was allergic to catnip,” Romilda Vane said.

“Well, what do you call this?” Ron demanded. He tried to snag Harry by the arm, only for Harry to spit in his face. “Argh! What the hell is he doing?”

“Catnip is a powerful euphoriant and a hallucinogen,” Hermione said. “He’s high as a kite right now. There’s no telling what he could do. It also makes him drool.”

By now, Remus had also caught on to what was happening, and he joined Ron in finally getting hold of Harry and pulling him down, sending all three of them sprawling on the floor.

“What, has this happened before?” Neville said.

“Once, when he was seven,” Hermione said as Harry squirmed on the floor. “We thought it would be fun to get him to try catnip, but it didn’t end well.”

“You’ve never told me about that,” Luna said, coming up by her side. “What happened?”

But before Hermione could answer, Harry jumped to his feet, reacting to his girlfriend’s voice. “Luna!” he slurred. He took a standing leap back onto the table, then back down on the other side, right in front of the girls. “Loopy-Lu-Lu-Loony-Luna!” He promptly lifted Luna up off her feet and planted a wet, slobbering kiss on her mouth whilst reaching around and flagrantly groping her arse. Luna let out a muffled squeak.

“Oh no, Luna! Neville, help me before he starts stripping!”

“Stripping?” Neville said worriedly. Seeing how he was pawing at his girlfriend, he didn’t want to guess which of them Harry would try to strip first. They quickly pull the couple apart. “Did he do that last time?”

“Among other things.” Hermione said. “We agreed not to talk about it.” She finally got Luna away from Harry. “Luna, are you okay?”

“Nargles!” she exclaimed breathlessly.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Neville, hold onto him!”

“I’m—oof—trying!”

“Why don’t you talk about it?” Ron asked. “What happened?”

Suddenly, Harry broke free and grabbed Hermione’s arm. “Hermy!” he said with a grin, and he attempted to plant a slobbering kiss on her as well.

_SMACK!_

Hermione slapped Harry so hard that he spun all the way around and flopped down to the floor. “That’s what happened,” she said. She waved her hand and cast a wandless _Petrificus Totalus_ on him before he could get up. “Remus, help me get him to the Hospital Wing before breaks out of it. With our luck, he probably can.”

She surveyed the scene as they levitated him out. Half of Gryffindor were wearing their breakfast, Luna still looked dazed, and she, Neville, and Ron all had drool on them. The rest of the hall was staring at them in shock, with many of the Slytherins openly jeering. And two redheads who were conspicuously absent from the fray were looking on with wide eyes and poorly-hidden grins.

“You two!” Hermione exploded at the Weasley Twins. “You’re behind this aren’t you?”

“Why Hermione, you wound us!” Fred exclaimed theatrically. “Accusing us without evidence?”

“What would make you think we were behind such a spectacular prank?” George asked.

“We know it came from inside the castle. And who else would send Harry a giant box of catnip?”

“I quite agree. Don’t try to deny it, Messrs. Weasley,” McGonagall said through her handkerchief as she carefully approached. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

“ _Et tu,_ Professor? Now, what makes _you_ think it was us?” Fred said innocently.

“Only the fact that you did the same thing to me in your first year, and Madam Pomfrey had to sedate me to stop me from creating a similar display.” Many students gasped and snickered around them. “Forty points from Gryffindor and detention cleaning up this mess!” She turned to the rest of the table and added. “Anyone with food or catnip on them is excused from their first class to clean up. And if I smell any catnip in my classroom, it _will_ mean a detention.”

* * *

Harry woke up in the Hospital Wing with a whanging headache. What was he doing there? He groaned, disoriented; then he tried to shift himself and was instantly wide awake. He was tied to the bed.

 _“Diffindo!”_ he cast wandlessly, and his hands and feet were freed all at once. He tried to sit up, and his headache hit him again. He moaned and fell back onto the bed.

“Madam Pomfrey he’s awake,” he heard Hermione call, far too loudly, and he saw her face appear over him.

“Ow. Not so loud,” he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry, cats don’t get hangovers.”

“What? Hermione, what happened? Why was I tied up?”

Hermione frowned at him, and Madam Pomfrey waved her wand in his face. “What’s the last thing you remember, Mr. Potter?” she asked.

Harry tried to remember. “I was at breakfast, I think,” he said. “I think maybe the mail was coming in?” He jerked up in bed again. “Did I get whammied by a cursed letter?”

“Worse,” Hermione said. “Fred and George mailed you a box of catnip.”

“Catnip?” he gasped. “Oh, no. I didn’t take my clothes off, did I?”

“No, we stopped you before you did that. But you _did_ try to snog me. Again.”

Harry raised his hand to his cheek where he could feel the sting from where Hermione had presumably slapped him, and the memories started coming back to him. “Oh, God, I remember,” he groaned.

“Mr. Potter, you’ve tried catnip before?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“Once. I was seven,” he said.

“What were your symptoms at that time? I’ve only seen Professor McGonagall under the influence once without stunning her, so I’m not certain what’s normal.”

“I cartwheeled around the house in my underpants, drooled everywhere, tried to snog Hermione, she slapped me, and a few minutes later, I passed out. I woke up two hours later with an awful headache.”

“I think that might be psychosomatic, ma’am,” Hermione pointed out. “Cats don’t get hangovers from catnip.”

“Catnip also only affects cats for ten minutes at a time,” he shot back. “Ugh, how long was I out.”

“A couple of hours, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Your symptoms today seem quite consistent with your description, except that the…erm… _snogging_ response was increased, likely because of teenage hormones.”

Harry tried to make sense of that statement, and he hid his face in his hands when he remembered: “Oh, no. I kind of molested Luna, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Hermione agreed. “She’s okay, though. She understands you were drugged.”

“Where is she?”

“Just outside, actually. First period classes were cancelled so everyone could clean up. Do you want to talk to her?”

“Argh, _no_.”

“I really think you should, Harry. You shouldn’t let a stupid prank get in the way of a healthy relationship.”

Harry glared at her. “Fine, fine, bring her in.”

Hermione rose and brought Luna in from outside the door. His girlfriend approached him slowly much more reservedly than usual. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Hello, Harry,” she said softly. “Are you feeling better?”

“I’m feeling _sober_ ,” he said. “I don’t know about better. Luna I’m really sorry about…you know…I know I was out of my mind, but I feel bad about being all over you like that. I…hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable.”

“Um…” Luna said. He looked up and saw she was blushing redder than he’d ever seen her. “It really wasn’t unpleasant,” she said sheepishly. “Except for you drooling on me.”

Now, Harry blushed. “Um…well…I’m glad to hear that, Luna…I think,” he said.

“And we can always practice your snogging later,” she said.

“Luna!” Hermione gasped.

“Miss Lovegood!” Madam Pomfrey said.

Luna just giggled at them. That was one more reason why Harry liked her so much. She actually had a wicked sense of humour.

“Harry, you’re a prefect,” Hermione scolded, deliberately taking her comment literally. “You have to set a good example for the younger students.”

“Then I’ll be sure not to get caught,” he said, winking at Luna.

_“Harry!”_


	8. Vicious Rumours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling demands satisfaction! (Or hopefully not.)

“Are you sure about this, Harry? It _is_ possible to have an allergy to that stuff, you know,” Hermione said.

“Mione, if those two were allergic to _anything_ , they’d have been dead years ago,” Harry said. “Besides, you’re the one who said I shouldn’t duel them.”

“Yes, but now I’m wondering if that was the wrong idea.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Harry, don’t jinx it!”

But Harry wasn’t swayed. The next morning at breakfast, he walked up to the Gryffindor Table and stood in front of the Weasley Twins, trying to look intimidating. He stood there without speaking until the pair looked up.

“What’s up, Harry?” asked Fred.

“Frederick and George Weasley,” Harry said. “Yesterday, you perpetrated a prank against me that made me look like a fool and also revealed a weakness of mine that I wanted to keep hidden. Now, I _could_ challenge you to a duel for this offence.” At the mention of the word “duel”, the Great Hall quieted as people listened in closer. “However, I know that you could declare the duel to be a prank war, and with you being you and I having two of the Marauders at my back, I’m not sure the castle could survive that.”

“Oh, Merlin, no,” Professor McGonagall said loud enough for the students to hear.

“So what are you going to do, then?” George asked.

Harry grinned and said, “I decided to skip straight to ‘Turnabout is fair play.’ Bombs away, Peeves!”

 _“What?”_ Fred and George looked up, but before they could react, Peeves appeared and dropped a water balloon on each of their heads. Except these balloons weren’t filled with water, but with concentrated Alihotsy Draught.

Unfortunately, there were no (legal) potions that induced the hallucinogenic display the catnip did for Harry, but Alihotsy Draught _was_ enough for the Twins to make fools of themselves, mainly by laughing until they passed out. Most of the Great Hall laughed along at them, and a few of the people nearest to them caught the fumes, but weren’t incapacitated.

“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall cut in, having quickly descended from the High Table. “I dislike catnip as much as you do, but this is _not_ the appropriate way to respond to the prank they played on you. Twenty points from Gryffindor, and be glad they didn’t make a mess like you did, or it would assuredly be worse.”

Harry accepted this and muttered to himself, “Worth it.”

* * *

After that, the school year went smoothly. The Quidditch season was off to a solid start. Harry was looking forward to his Hogsmeade date with Luna (and Hermione with Neville). Rumours about more mundane things became the centre of gossip, along with the war and some rather interesting ones regarding the Diagonal Theatre’s Christmas play. Meanwhile, the most interesting things to happen were the new seminars given by the visiting Grand Sorcerers.

Professor Grayson’s wandless magic seminars were the biggest hit, as expected. Fan Tong’s divination seminars hadn’t started yet, but there were a lot of rumours going around about her and Professor Trelawney. Harry and Hermione, though, were rather interested in Old Coyote’s seminars on wandlore. This seminar was more populated by Ravenclaws, but several of the professors also turned out to see it. Even Ollivander and Dumbledore were there to watch.

“Good afternoon,” Coyote greeted the audience. “As most of you will know, I am Shomihkasi, or as I am better known, Old Coyote, and I hope I am not boasting too much to say that I am regarded as the finest wandmaker in the Americas.”

He might have been a little, but it was also true.

“Wandmakers are a famously secretive guild,” he continued. “Wandcraft is complex and subtle and takes a lifetime to master, and a good wandmaker is extremely valuable. It is for that very reason that Master Ollivander is keeping safe here at Hogwarts this year. However, I prefer to _moderate_ that position of secrecy. It is my belief that an understanding of the basics of wandlore will make one a better witch or wizard. It will hardly take business away from the experienced wandmakers, but it just may save your life in a pinch.”

Harry and Hermione noted that both Dumbledore and Ollivander were frowning a little. They both had a hunch that wouldn’t really jibe with Dumbledore’s philosophy, and Ollivander was the more traditional sort.

“Now, obviously, things are a little different in the Americas. Just as magic developed differently in North America than in Europe, wandcraft did likewise. Staffs are still more common there than they are here.” He raised his own staff as an example. “And many other traditions of magical totems developed among the various tribes. My own success has come through extensive study of these traditions and incorporating those parts I could into my own craft. You see, by blood, I am a mixture of Osage, Cherokee, and the white men who lived in northern Oklahoman after the Civil War, but in my travels, I have studied every tribe from the Inuit of Alaska, who had no wood and cast magic with seal bones, to the Seminole of Florida, who did not use woody plants at all, but instead used stiff grasses like reed, sawgrass, and cattail.

“The reason for this is that while wizards across North America were in contact with one another, magic was not standardised until European colonists arrived. Before that, loose associations of what the settlers called ‘medicine men’ taught their children magic through what amounted to apprenticeships, and many different styles of magic were developed. Even where something like traditional wands were used, they were made differently, carved differently—some intricately carved with animal motifs recalling the totem pole, and others made from the raw branches, unmarred.”

Old Coyote’s whethered staff was obviously of the latter category. Harry remembered Voldemort’s new wand, with its intricate carvings. He hadn’t got that close a look, but it was definitely an American style. He wondered what difference that might make.

“My own staff,” Old Coyote continued with a smile, “is something of a style all its own. My finest work. The wood is a branch broken from a bristlecone pine of the Great Basin of Nevada. The tree was long dead when I found it, but still standing, the wood still strong and unyielding. I estimate the tree it was taken from sprouted over seven thousand years ago. The core is twined hair from the ghost deer of California, a rare and elusive beast similar to your thestrals and possessing a legendary power.”

At this point, Dumbledore coughed and interrupted the lecture. Old Coyote stared at him, waiting for him to speak. “I am surprised you are being so open with this information, Master Coyote,” he said.

“Oh, the design of my staff is little secret, Headmaster,” he replied. “Few others could even attempt to make its like, after all. The secrets of where to find the ancient trees, how to snare the ghost deer, how to mate the parts into a powerful whole—those are things that I guard carefully.”

“Certainly,” Dumbledore replied, “but to announce that you possess such a powerful staff…”

Old Coyote gave Dumbledore an intense stare that seemed to be looking through him into the depths of his soul. Without taking his eyes off him, he said, “It matters not, Headmaster. This is from another technique that is more common in America. Wands are an intensely personal thing. Even here in Europe, wizards are often buried with their wands. Some of us in America take it a step further. I would not be so open about my staff had I not ensured that it would work only for me.”

Dumbledore looked very thoughtful.

* * *

“You have to be aware of your surroundings in a fight,” Edward Grayson called out to his students lined up on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. “This is a lot more than knowing where your opponent is and watching out for obstacles. That’s just common sense. So’s diving for cover and keeping mobile. Now granted, some people don’t get it at first if they’re green enough. In European-style duels, the duelling wards are pretty narrow and don’t give you a lot of room to dodge, and someone who’s only combat experience is duelling might make the mistake of not getting the hell out of the way when people start shooting curses at them, but they’ll learn fast. Of course, in Australia, the rules are looser, so we don’t have that problem. I’d advise you to keep that in mind today.”

The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws looked around at the “battle ground”. A long, narrow section along the edge of the Forest had been marked off all around by a lavender ribbon that resembled a wizarding version of caution tape. “Today is going to be about learning by doing,” Grayson continued. “We’re setting up a simple game that is in many ways worst-case scenario: the classic ‘every wizard for himself’ situation. Picture this: you’re on a battlefield. The whole area is in chaos. Imperius Curses, Confundus Charms, Legilimency, and all manner of disguises have been thrown around all day until you don’t know who to trust. Even your best friend may turn on you at a moment’s notice. Your only chance is to be the last person standing and sort it out afterwards. It sounds terrifying, but I’ve _been_ in fights like that.”

The class shuddered at the thought. They’d heard horror stories from the last war, including people who were Imperiused and attacked their friends and families, but never a free-for-all like that.

“So you can probably figure out what we’ll be doing today,” Grayson said. “Everyone into the trees, and when I give the signal—only when I give the signal—start duelling. Anything goes; the aim is to be the last person standing. The only rules are that you may not use illegal spells, you may not seriously injure your fellow students, and you may not cross the lavender ribbon. No instructions for the first game. I just want to see how you do. Once I know where you all stand, I’ll teach you some basic tips for this kind of fight.”

Everyone looked around nervously. Most of the class had duelled in the Duelling Club, but they had never been in an all-out fight like this, game or no (not to mention such was usually discouraged in the school). Harry _had_ been in an all-out fight for his life against a couple of dozen dark magic wielding wizards—a fight he lost, in fact. Voldemort had killed him. (He got better.) That didn’t make him any more confident.

“Harry, are you going to be okay with this?” Hermione asked him quietly.

Harry looked around at the rest of the class: Gryffindors and Ravenclaws—no Slytherins—and limited to not injuring each other. It was a completely different situation, he told himself. “Yeah, I think I can handle it,” he said.

Grayson gave the class a minute to get into the trees and find cover, and then started the battle. It was complete chaos. Jinxes and hexes flew fast and furious as people ducked in and out of trees and tried to hit each other. Harry cringed at the noise and flashing lights. He thought he was ready, but the sheer volume of spells being thrown reminded him a too much of the fight in the graveyard. He crouched down behind the strongest shield he could put up and took a few deep breaths. _It_ _’s okay_ , he told himself. _Just students. Nothing worse than Stunning Spells. I need to learn to handle this_.

Once he did that, he was in better shape. He looked around, sensing with his eyes, ears, and his excellent sense of magic. That gave him an advantage, as he could usually tell when someone was attacking him from behind, even through the haze of spellfire. He successfully stunned Lavender Brown followed by Michael Corner. He made pains to stay far away from Hermione, whom he didn’t want to try facing any way but one on one in that mess. However, he soon ran into a snag as Seamus Finnigan was showing a level of competence far greater than he ever had in the Duelling Club, using literal fire as cover fire to keep anyone from coming near him.

Several people engaged Seamus, including Harry, with little success. His habit of accidentally blowing things up in class was finally helping him, and he had a wall of fire protecting his back while took potshots at anyone coming at him from the front. Harry ducked behind a tree to rest, trying to think of a way to flank him. Then, it came to him.

 _He_ _’s intelligent, but not experienced. His pattern indicates two-dimensional thinking._ Harry smiled. Changing to cat form, he climbed a tree. Struck from above, Seamus went down before he knew what hit him. Harry made sure the fire was cleared away at a safe distance around him and went on to pick off the others from above. That is, until he sensed a spell incoming and narrowly avoided a Stunning Spell cast from above _him_. He spun around, expecting to see Hermione, but instead, he spotted Ron.

“Quidditch, right?” Ron said. “Shoulda thought of that sooner.”

Harry changed to cat form and scampered down the branch to the next tree. He heard Ron shout, “Hey, no fair!” behind him.

In the end, it was Harry’s greater mobility that had him winning the free-for-all mainly through attrition—basically the same strategy he’d used against the Death Eaters, he thought uncomfortably. When he was the last one standing, Grayson went through and revived everyone, making sure they weren’t seriously injured, and called them back out to the grass.

“First of all, I want to commend all of you for following the rules,” he said. “It’s easy to have accidents with this kind of game, even with me watching everything. This bodes well for the future of this class. Second, I want to commend two students who put in a particularly good performance. Seamus Finnigan made excellent use of battlefield control via fire magic. In a fight, one of the most important tactics is to use the terrain to your advantage, and if you can’t use it as is, you _make_ it work for you, and fire is a good way to do that. It’s difficult to do on a large scale, but if you’ve got it, use it. And Harry Potter was the first person to think of attacking from above, in the trees. Failing to watch for attacks from above is one of the most common mistakes, and even when people do keep an eye out, they usually aren’t as attentive to what’s above them. If you can attack from an unexpected direction, that’s a big advantage. Thirty points to Gryffindor for that showing by the two of you. Now, let’s talk about some basic battlefield tactics…”

* * *

“That was really cool,” Ron said after the class ended. “I didn’t think I’d ever have that much fun duelling—or, you know, sort of duelling.”

“I agree it was really useful,” Hermione said. “I’m just a little worried. You could really make the case that Professor Grayson is trying to turn us into soldiers.”

“Worry about that when the war is over,” Harry said. “I know _I_ need this practice. And besides, muggles have paintball and stuff. It’s not like these kinds of games are completely unfamiliar to us.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“I loved it,” Seamus said. “For once, I wasn’t the one gettin’ burnt.” Several people rolled their eyes. “Say d’you think Lupin would let us do something like that in the Duelling Club?”

Harry slowed and thought for a minute. “I bet he would if I asked him,” he said. “It would give us more practice, and with a greater range of opponents. Hey, Seamus, you could team up with Justin and give us a _real_ challenge.”

Hermione squeaked in horror: “Harry, are you nuts? Justin’s almost as bad with fire as Seamus is. I don’t think the school can survive that!”

“Oi! I can make it work,” Seamus said. “Let’s do it.”

“We’re doomed,” she groaned.

* * *

“The Knights of Walpurgis originally claimed to be a pagan religious movement,” Remus told the History of Magic class. “Knights of Walpurgis, named for Walpurgis Night—the thirtieth of April, opposite on the Druidic calendar from All Hallows’ Eve, also an important pagan festival. In addition to separating from muggles and muggle-borns, the Knights wanted to separate from muggle religion—from the Christians who hunted down witches and wizards in the time of the Inquisition—and to bring back the Old Ways. Of course, some wizards still celebrate the Old Ways today and get along quite well, but the Knights of Walpurgis proselytised aggressively for everyone to return to them. However, their recruiting during this time was actually not very good—certainly not compared with the success of the Death Eaters a decade later. Why was that? Why did they fail as a religious movement before succeeding as a political one?”

To the surprise of many, it was Blaise Zabini who had the right answer: “I’m guessing too many wizards were Christians for it to stick.”

“Correct, Mr. Zabini,” Remus said. “A majority of wizards in Britain today would call themselves Christians. Even though Christianity was nearly stamped out in wizarding Europe during the witch hunts, it slowly came back in the ensuing centuries. You see, each generation, more muggle-borns entered the magical world—muggle-borns who were mostly Church of England members even to this day. They married witches and wizards who at the time were more likely to be non-religious than anything else, and the faith spread. Simply put, by the late twentieth century, the Knights of Walpurgis found themselves without a receptive audience.

“Now, the second point is that You-Know-Who was known and even spoken of by name during this time, but he kept a low profile. The name ‘Knights of Walpurgis’ was far better known than that of…‘Lord Voldemort’. It was only when the Knights became the Death Eaters, when the Dark Mark first appeared in the sky, and when the religious movement became a political one centred around purity of blood, that _his_ name became known and feared.”

Elizabeth Runcorn raised her hand: “But didn’t the Knights also advocate for blood purity, Professor?”

“Yes, Miss Runcorn, but that wasn’t their primary advocacy for many years. Remember Mr. Potter’s expose that You-Know-Who is in fact a half-blood?” There were still angry murmurs every time he mentioned that, but the Slytherins had learnt not to question it by now. “The Knights’ ‘advocacy’ was about building up the strength of and segregating the wizarding world and culture, not the bloodlines. It wasn’t until the sixties that the political divide in Britain crystallised in its current state. The election of muggle-born war hero Nobby Leach as Minister in 1962 gave the Knights and the simmering blood purist movement a political cause to rally around, one that garnered considerably more support for the newly rebranded Death Eaters than the Knights ever received.

“Once again, you may find it surprising to hear the war discussed in such mundane political terms. The terror of the seventies made many people forget about the Knights of Walpurgis and how the movement started, but the records are there. And you shouldn’t just take my word for it. Read the back issues of the _Prophet_ from the sixties in the library. Ask your parents or grandparents, if you can, about what it was like back then. The perspective of someone who actually lived through the events is worth ten books written about it a generation later.”

Draco Malfoy considered this, as did many of the others. A year or more ago, he probably would have dismissed much of it. But with the research he’d done into his own family history, he’d gained a newfound appreciation for political pragmatism. As a religious movement, the Knights of Walpurgis would have been a brilliant move in the 1700s, but it had lost its lustre by the twentieth century. Still, the Dark Lord had started out _not_ leading a blood purist movement? Well, it wasn’t as unthinkable as it had once been. Even today, from what he was hearing second- and third-hand, the Dark Lord wasn’t _exactly_ admitting he was really a half-blood, but he _was_ apparently talking less about blood and more about things like power, tradition, a stronger government, and restoring respect for the Dark Arts.

Power was always what it really came down to. Draco knew that well as a Malfoy—perhaps better than his father, he dared say, as his father seemed more and more caught up in the blood purism the more he looked. Obviously, there were differences in philosophy. Dumbledore embraced muggle influence in the magical world. The Dark Lord opposed it. Dumbledore despised the Dark Arts. The Dark Lord believed there was a healthy place for them in society. But at the end of the day, it was about power.

The problem was—though he hardly dared think it—he wasn’t sure if the Dark Lord’s _kind_ of power was the one for the job anymore. It had certainly looked like it was in the seventies, when the Ministry was on the ropes, and if Dumbledore would hurry up and die, he’d probably agree now. But Dumbledore could keep on kicking for another twenty years, and the Dark Lord _had_ been defeated before. Plus, this was gearing up to be an international conflict, and that changed things.

 _What would Grandfather have done?_ Draco wondered. He’d idolised his father for so long that he’d thought him the perfect role model, but now, he wasn’t so sure. He’d asked about Grandfather, and he was starting to notice the difference between Lucius and Abraxas. Abraxas Malfoy had worked _with_ Dumbledore against Grindelwald, and with good reason; the maniac had wanted to do away with the Statute of Secrecy. He’d worked with Dumbledore, even though he hadn’t liked him.

 _What would Armand Malfoy have done? What would the first Lucius Malfoy have done? What would Brutus Malfoy have done?_ Those weren’t questions Draco would have asked himself a year ago, and yet, as he’d tracked down the old books that recorded the marks his family had made on history, he was paying more attention. The answer for each man was different, as each of their situations were different, but what was the right answer now? What would a _smart_ Lord Malfoy do, unfettered by prejudice?

Dangerous questions. He shuddered. He didn’t even dare to ask Mother some of them, even though she was also of the mind that the Dark Lord wasn’t the best way to go. But what way _should_ he go? That he wasn’t so sure about.

Not that it wouldn’t stop him from annoying Potter, though. That was just too much fun to pass up.

* * *

Halloween came too quickly that year, not least because Harry was dreading it. Something bad had happened every Halloween he was at Hogwarts, and with Voldemort out in the open again, he was sure this year was going to be so much worse.

“Come on, Harry, you have to get up,” Hermione said, smacking him on the shoulder.

“Don’ wanna,” Harry mumbled into his pillow.

“We have class today, you know.”

“Don’ care.”

“Yes you do, Harry. You _know_ what Professor McGonagall will do if you miss Transfiguration.”

“Tell her I’m sick.”

“I’m not going to lie for you.”

Harry pushed himself halfway up and glared at his sister. “Hermione, it’s Halloween,” he said. “Besides being the day my parents died, something bad _always_ happens on Halloween. It’s bad enough what Voldemort’s probably gonna do out there tonight, and the castle’s not much better. I don’t care if Snape’s subbing for McGonagall today. I’m staying in bed where it’s safe.” He flopped down onto his pillow again.

“Harry—” Hermione started for her wand.

“Don’t try it,” he said without looking. “You know I can beat you in a duel.”

Hermione sighed sadly. “I’m sorry, little brother,” she said. “I know how hard this day is for you. I’ll…I’ll bring you up some food and do what I can to get McGonagall off your back.”

She turned to go, but Harry briefly clasped her hand, “Thanks, Mione,” he mumbled.

“No problem, Harry.”

She let him be through breakfast, lunch, classes—but to Harry’s dismay, he didn’t get a peaceful day, and to his shock, the trouble came from a completely unexpected direction. It was just before dinner when Hermione burst into his bedroom, sounding frantic: “Harry, you have to come down right now.”

“Why?” he groaned.

“Dumbledore’s down there. Filch is spitting mad about something, and he’s threatening to drag you out by your thumbs if you don’t come down right now, and Dumbledore’s backing him up.”

“Huh?” Harry said, confused. “Dumbledore’s backing up Filch?”

“Well, I don’t know the exact situation, but he told me to bring you down sort we could sort it out.”

Harry pushed himself up with concern. Anyone else, even Snape, he would have blown off, but it wasn’t a good idea to keep Dumbledore waiting. He stumbled down the stairs to meet them, his school robe pulled on over his pyjamas and his hair uncombed. When he got to the Common Room, he saw the stares on him already. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he said.

“Just go, Harry,” Hermione nudged him.

They climbed out of the portrait hole, and…

“There he is! There’s the filthy pervert!” Filch spat at Harry. “I want him out! He’s not fit to be in this school!”

“What?” Harry said stupidly.

A small crowd of teachers and students had gathered outside the Common Room. Professor Dumbledore looked unhappy, while Professor McGonagall was clearly trying to figure out what was going on. “Mr. Filch, please control yourself and explain,” she said.

“Potter! I want him expelled! He’s not fit to be around man nor beast! He’s a filthy, perverted, little freak!”

Automatically, Hermione stepped in front of Harry. “Don’t call Harry a freak!” she snapped.

“Stay out of this if you know what’s good for you, girl,” Filch said with spittle flying, stepping towards her menacingly. “How do I know you’re not one, too?”

“One what?” Hermione said.

Harry placed himself in front of her. “Don’t talk to Hermione like that,” he said.

“Shut up, Potter! You don’t get to talk to me after what you did.”

Harry drew himself up and got right in Filch’s face. “Mr. Filch, what on Earth are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Mrs. Norris’s kittens!”

“…What?”

“What? What?” he mocked. “You know what you did!”

“Um…no, I _don_ _’t_ know what I did.”

“Thought you had something to prove after those rumours?”

“I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about.”

“Oh? You seduce so many innocent cats you don’t remember—”

 _“WHAT?!”_ Harry and several of his friends shouted.

“Argus, that’s quite enough!” Dumbledore cut in thunderously. “You may not like Mr. Potter, but I will not permit you to tell such scandalous lies about a student.”

“Lies are they, Headmaster?” Filch said, his mouth quivering. “Then how do you explain _this?_ ” And suddenly, Filch pulled a tiny tabby kitten out of his robes and held it up. Harry could see it was too young to even have its eyes open, and it had a little white lightning-bolt mark on its forehead.

“What?” Harry repeated in utter confusion.

The kitten mewed pitifully as Filch waved it around, and the other students got a good look, a storm of whispers started and rapidly grew in volume. Professor McGonagall hurried over and began inspecting the creature, while Harry’s ears picked up words like “Potter”, “kittens”, and “Mrs. Norris”. Suddenly, it broke when a third-year Slytherin boy called out, “I don’t believe it! Potter went and had kittens!”

_CRACK!_

Harry wandlessly generated a burst of electricity that lanced out far enough to strike the torch brackets, silencing the mob before they could really get going. “Next person who repeats that sentence, we duel, even if it’s a teacher,” he snarled. “Same goes for whoever thought this would be a funny prank. This is a slander of the worst kind, Mr. Filch.” _God, I_ _’m starting to sound like an aristocrat. But too late to back down._ “Let me explain it for those who don’t get it. One: _eww, gross!_ I can’t believe _anyone_ would think I would do that. Two: _this_ —” He pointed to his forehead. “—is a curse scar. It’s not heritable. Three: cat pregnancies are two months, and it was only been a month and a half between those rumours and that kitten in _your_ cockamamie theory, Mr. Filch. And four: I’m Harry Freakin’ Potter! The day my only option is a cat is the day Voldemort waltzes down Diagon Alley in a ballerina’s tutu!”

“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall said, scandalised.

“Erm…sorry, Professor.”

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter, and please stand down. I would very much like to resolve this without wands drawn. And do put that poor kitten down, Argus. You’re frightening him.” She carefully took the kitten in her hands and lightly prodded him with her wand. “I promise all of you I _will_ do my utmost to see that the perpetrator of this scandal is properly punished. And I assure you, Argus, that this kitten is _not_ Mr. Potter’s progeny. Animagi cannot breed with true animals…We don’t like to advertise the fact, but several animagi have tried in past centuries.” This provoked a general chorus of _“Eww!”_ from the student body. “But in any case, it appears that this kitten has had a Hair-Bleaching Potion applied to his fur in an ill-advised prank,” she concluded, “something that should not be done to a cat, especially one this young.”

A wave of relief washed through the crowd, along with indignation on the kitten’s behalf. Harry was still practically in duelling mode, but with a deep breath, he sheathed his metaphorical claws, relieved that the scandal had been stopped before it could be properly started. He then noticed his vision was brighter and sharper than usual, and he reversed the cat eye transformation that he had unconsciously done. That probably hadn’t looked good for him. He looked around and was relieved to see that Luna wasn’t present, although Malfoy was, which made him suspicious. Per Professor McGonagall’s wishes, he wasn’t going to call anyone out unless he absolutely had to, but he nonetheless turned and stared intensely at the third-year Slytherin who had shouted earlier.

The boy got the message immediately and said, “I apologise for my outburst, Lord Potter. I was poorly-informed.”

Harry nodded and turned back to Filch. However, in this case, it only resulted in a stare-down. Harry didn’t back down.

“It would appear you were both played by a particularly vicious prank, Argus,” McGonagall said softly. “I suggest you resolve this amicably.”

Filch glowered and growled a little bit. Harry was running through the unwritten rules of social protocol to figure out whether he was honour-bound to call him out if he didn’t relent. Fortunately, he didn’t have to make the decision. “Fine, I should have got the facts first,” Filch grumbled. “You’re clear, I guess, Potter.”

“Um…thanks, Mr. Filch,” he mumbled. He then turned again and glared at Malfoy.

Malfoy looked like the cat that got the canary.

* * *

“Potter suspects Draco of being behind both this prank and the earlier rumours, my Lord, but he has no proof,” Lucius reported. “However, McGonagall was able to quickly confirm the nature of what was done to the kitten.”

“Not terribly useful, but amusing nonetheless,” Voldemort replied good-naturedly. “With luck, your son will be as effective with more important work. What was Potter’s reaction?”

“According to Draco’s letter, he threatened to duel anyone who accused him of such depraved acts, even if they were a teacher. He also provided four reasons why he could not have done it. First: the disgustingness of the alleged act, second: that curse scars are not heritable, third: the length of feline pregnancies, and fourth—” He choked when he read the last line. He really should have cleared this before reading it aloud.

“Yes?” Voldemort said. “Speak up, Lucius.”

“Fourth…Potter claimed—and Draco assures me this report is accurate—that the day his only option is a cat is…is the day _you_ , my Lord, waltz down Diagon Alley in a ballerina’s tutu.”

Voldemort hissed while his Death Eaters tried not to laugh. Such disrespect! But La Pantera had no such reservations. She cackled loudly and said, “Oh, that is rich. You should do it just to mess with his head!”

The Dark Lord glared at her, wondering if he could invent a spell that would kill with his eyes like a basilisk. “My colleague’s dubious advice aside, Potter must be made to learn the cost of such disrespect,” he said. “He has followed Dumbledore’s insolent habits from the start, and he has grown far too cocky. It is time we struck back. Reach out to your contacts at the Ministry, Lucius, see if you can turn up any information about people who are close to him who would be accessible to us.”

“It will be done, my Lord.”

“Now, for our next order of business, Dolohov has brought us a special guest. Bring him in.”

Antonin Dolohov entered the room. He had the look of someone who had been on the road for a long time. Although he had cleaned himself up, he had lost weight, lost sleep, and let his hair grow out. Yet that was nothing compared with his “guest”. The man was hooded with his hands bound; he stumbled forward with a limp when prodded, and he had several large tears in his clothes with recently-healed wounds beneath them. Dolohov forced the man to his knees before Voldemort and removed the hood. Cold blue eyes filled with terror when the man saw his master, and the other Death Eaters jeered and cursed at him when they saw his face. But Voldemort raised his hand for silence.

“Igor Karkaroff,” the Dark Lord said. “My most fickle follower—and that is saying a lot. You could have been one of my most faithful, enduring Azakaban as Dolohov and others did, but instead, you turned traitor and sold out your fellow Death Eaters for your freedom—” There was another brief round of jeers. “—and now you are too cowardly to return to me except when bound hand and foot. What do you have to say for yourself, Karkaroff?”

“Master, I—”

“ _Crucio!_ ” Voldemort shouted, sending Karkaroff sprawling to the floor. “On second thought, I do not care. This was not mere unfaithfulness. This was betrayal, Karkaroff, and it will not be forgiven. Were you no longer useful to me, I would make your death slow and _exquisite_. However, my current position has bought you a few more months of life. No, my Death Eaters, we will not be killing Karkaroff tonight. That festivity will wait until our glorious conquest of Britain. I have another purpose for him tonight.”

Through this entire speech, Karkaroff was on the ground, screaming. Voldemort had surreptitiously cast a quieting spell so that he could be heard without totally drowning out the melodious sound. He finally released the curse, leaving Karkaroff lying on the ground, gasping for breath and not even trying to get up.

“ _Imperio!_ On your feet, slave,” Voldemort said. Karkaroff stood up at a speed that must be causing him further pain, but he didn’t complain. “Your betrayal makes you valuable only as a puppet, but your political position means I cannot discard you out of hand. Dolohov!”

Dolohov bowed: “Yes, my Lord.”

“You have done well in bringing the prisoner to me so quickly. For this, you will be rewarded. Your next step will be to return Karkaroff to Durmstrang. Reinstall him as Headmaster…and install yourself as his Deputy. Use Imperius, Polyjuice, and any other methods you deem fit, but I want the two of you in place by the end of the year. Keep Karkaroff under your direct control. That will give us the resources we need for our spring offensive…And when we are through with him, you will take his place as Headmaster of Durmstrang.”

The other Death Eaters were quietly awed at Dolohov being promised such a prestigious position—all according to plan, of course. Slowly dribbling out plum assignments like this would serve to motivate the others all the more.

Yes, things were going very well, indeed.

* * *

“Malfoy!” It took Harry until the next day to actually corner his quarry after the kitten incident, and even then, only with Hermione’s and Neville’s help.

“What, Potter?” Malfoy said, looking thoroughly unconcerned.

“I’ve seen some dirty pranks before, but that one took the cake.”

Malfoy grinned: “I’ll be sure to pass that along if I find out who did it.” He started to walk away, but Harry stepped in front of him.

“Don’t play dumb, Malfoy.”

He snorted. “You’ve got nothing on me, Potter.”

“No, but we both know you did it.”

“You keep telling yourself that Potter.” He tried to leave again, but Harry still blocked him.

“I’ll make this quick, Malfoy,” Harry said. “You need to decide which side you’re on.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is about a lot more than a prank, Malfoy,” Harry said. “We both know your father was in that graveyard, Malfoy. You don’t have to admit it. I just want to make one thing clear to you: it takes a special kind of evil to see a human being writhing on the ground, screaming in agony…and laugh at him…Your father _is_ that kind of evil. You need to decide whether you are while you still can.”

At that, he stepped aside, but Malfoy kept staring at him, only gradually realising that his path was clear and moving on his way.

 _That was_ _…oddly unsettling_ , Draco thought.

It wasn’t something he’d thought about, for all the other things he’d been thinking about, but when he forced himself to confront it, he realised that the idea of torturing muggle-borns didn’t…excite him—in either sense of the word (he shuddered)—like it did for people like Marcus Flint—or even for Crabbe and Goyle, to hear them talk. Even Potter and his know-it-all mudblood sister…he wasn’t interested. Kick their arses and stomp their faces into the dirt, sure, but torture? He was almost surprised to realise that it held no appeal for him.

Plus, kicking their arses might actually be something he could do. Potter consistently beat him in duels, but Professor Grayson was teaching them how to _fight_ , and that gave him a lot more room to use that Slytherin cunning. Grayson wasn’t stupid, so presumably he (and Dumbledore) believed that teaching the “good” students how to fight properly was worth the cost of picking up a few Death Eaters’ children along the way. So much the better.

But what Potter had said? It shook him, especially after the kitten prank. _Had_ that been out of line? Suddenly, he wasn’t sure what to think. And then there was Father. Torture held no appeal for Draco, but for Father? He didn’t talk about it much, but he _knew_ that Father had done his share of torturing in the last war, and he’d probably enjoyed some of it. That was a hard truth to reconcile with the caring man who had raised him.

As much as he couldn’t stand the git, he had a bad feeling that Potter was right: he needed to decide whether he was okay with that.


	9. Big Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter li pi JK Rowling.
> 
> The language Luna and Grawp are speaking is actually (approximately) the then-nonexistent Toki Pona. It’s pretty fun to work with once you get used to it.

“Oh no!” Hermione gasped.

“What is it?” Harry said fearfully.

She showed him the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ : “Dementors attacked Liverpool.”

Harry and everyone around him gasped. “But that’s impossible!” Katie Bell said. “They sealed Azkaban.”

“We don’t know how reliable that is,” Hermione countered. “And some of them could have escaped before that.”

“Hell, there could be some growing somewhere else,” Neville said. “They _are_ spirits of decay, after all.”

“How did it happen?” Harry said. “Who—?”

“No one we know,” Hermione assured him. “It looks like the only victims were muggles—or at least that’s all the Ministry is admitting to.”

“That seems strange,” Angelina said. “Dementors don’t go after muggles so much. They’re naturally attracted to mag—”

“No! No!” a shout cut her off. They turned to see Su Li shouting hysterically and waving her wand around. “They said it was sealed. They said it was _safe!_ ”

“Su, calm down,” one of her roommates said.

“They killed my brother, and now they’re running loose! Those idiots at the Ministry said they were supposed to stay in Azkaban! We need to get rid of them and get someone who actually knows what they’re doing!”

“Su. Su! Take it easy,” her friends said, but she kept shouting, getting more and more hysterical until one of the upper years had to Stun her.

An awkward silence fell. Nearly everyone could feel for her. Dementors were the vilest creatures on Earth: soul-sucking monsters that destroyed everything they touched and could only be killed by sealing them away until they starved. As long as they were locked up in Azkaban, most people were reasonably comfortable with them, but the idea of dementors running loose in public was nearly as much a bogeyman as Voldemort himself.

“So what do we do now?” Neville asked.

Harry thought about it for a minute and said, “I have an idea.”

* * *

“We want to learn the Patronus Charm, Professor,” Harry said.

Professor Grayson examined the four Gryffindors who had approached him and then the rest of the class. “And are the rest of you interested in this?” he asked. Most of the class nodded. “Very well,” he said. With a wave of his hand, he erased the blackboard; then he wandlessly enchanted a piece of chalk to begin taking new notes. “The Patronus Charm is one of the most difficult, if not _the_ most difficult, spells in the standard repertoire, at least according to the standards here. I understand that in Britain, it’s only found on the Mastery standard. It’s not even on the Auror standard, which is a serious oversight, although nearly all of the Aurors in Britain can cast it. You can be sure I checked that right away.

“However, the challenge of the Patronus Charm isn’t its technical difficulty,” he continued. “It’s the amount of practice and effort it takes to master it. In fact, I was already planning to teach the N.E.W.T. students. When I was headmaster at Uluru, I required all graduating students to at least attempt it, so if you want to try it as well, I say more power to you.

“The Patronus Charm is the only known way to fight dementors…is what the Ministry wants me to teach you. Now, tell me why that’s wrong.”

The students looked around at each other, and Seamus raised his hand. “Doesn’t fire do something against them, Professor?” he asked.

“Naturally, Finnigan. Fire _does_ have an effect. If you can’t cast a Patronus Charm, blasting a dementor with fire will force it back long enough for you to Apparate away. Anyone else?”

“Banishing Charms, Professor?” asked Anthony Goldstein.

“Yes. The principle is the same: force the dementor back to buy the few seconds you need to Apparate away. The same goes for all sorts of nastier curses, too, but since not even the Killing Curse will actually work on them, it’s a waste of energy to do anything fancier. To hold off a dementor for longer than a few seconds takes a Patronus or something similar. If you can’t cast a Patronus _or_ Apparate away…” He flashed a cold grin. “You might not want to go out alone at night.”

The class shivered at his words for a moment before they moved on. “You said ‘or something similar’, Professor,” Hermione observed. “Other magical traditions have other ways of dealing with dementors, don’t they?”

“Correct, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor. The Patronus Charm is _not_ the only spell that can repel a dementor. It’s just the only one in the standard repertoire here in Britain. Most cultures have their own version of the Patronus. In Australia, for example, we have a chant. But it doesn’t matter that much. The chant can be cast wandlessly, but if you’re not carrying your wand whenever you go out in times like this, you’re a fool. Other than that, no one method is really better than any of the others. True, the wards of Hogwarts would keep out an army of dementors indefinitely if raised to their full strength, but as far as magic you can _cast_ , one anti-dementor enchantment is more or less equal to another, so we’ll stick with the Patronus. Line up!”

Grayson waved the desks aside, and the class scrambled to form a line across the classroom.

“Dark magic— _true_ dark magic,” he said, “is fuelled by negative emotions—anger, hate, sometimes despair or fear. Sometimes something a little subtler. The Imperius Curse is powered by a sadistic desire for control, for example. This isn’t really earth-shaking, but I’m telling you this for comparison. Just as dark magic is fuelled by negative emotions, _true_ light magic is fuelled by _positive_ emotions. The _Riddikulus_ Charm is powered by laughter. The very strongest magical protections are fuelled by love. And in the case of the Patronus Charm, the emotion is _joy_. The books say to focus on a powerful happy memory to cast a Patronus, but that’s just the thing that works for the greatest number of people. Many married couples will tell you something different.” Many of the girls giggled at that. “A Garrick Ollivander or a Viktor Krum might tell you something different still. The key factor is _joy_. When you cast the Patronus Charm, focus on whatever it is that makes you most happy. It can be a memory. It can be a person. It can be a passion. But it takes a powerful force of joy to overcome the dementor’s aura of despair, and you need to be ready to call it up at a moment’s notice.”

The wand movements for the Patronus Charm were a little technical, but they weren’t out of the reach of a determined fifth-year, and most of the fifth-years were very determined. It was just that the amount of effort it took to cast such a powerful light spell was very difficult to achieve.

“Don’t be discouraged if you don’t get much of a result right away—or any result at all, for that matter,” Grayson said. “It takes time to train your mind and your magic to do this spell well. It’s possible to do everything right and still need weeks of practice to get a good result, so if it doesn’t work for you, just keep trying. I’ll give you pointers and corrections as needed. Mr. Boot, you try it first.”

Terry Boot stepped forward, waving his wand and saying the words. His wand produced a wisp of ghostly white mist and nothing more. Grayson corrected his wand movements a little bit and told him to keep trying before moving on to Mandy Brocklehurst. He continued down the roster, making small adjustments to people’s wand motions or pronunciation or timing, and there was some visible improvement. Hermione managed to cast a glowing silver shield that Grayson said would actually stop a dementor, at least for a short time, which she looked very pleased about. Harry wondered what happy thought she was thinking of.

“Alright, Mr. Potter, let’s see what you can do,” Grayson said when he got to him.

Harry closed his eyes and readied himself. He knew exactly what to do. As much as he loved Quidditch and flying, or as much as his girlfriend made him happy, there had never been a shred of doubt as to what _his_ focus needed to be.

_Would you like to join our family, Harry?_

_“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”_

There was a blinding light that flooded the room and made even Grayson avert his eyes. When it subsided, a glowing white cat was standing before Harry with a lightning bolt mark on its head shining out even brighter against its ghostly form.

The class gasped in awe. Harry had cast a perfect corporeal Patronus on his first try. They could feel the waves of joy and hopefulness radiating from it. He smiled. It looked like he wouldn’t have as much trouble with dementors as he thought.

“Crikey!” Grayson said. “Well, that was unexpected. You’ve exceeded even my expectations, Mr. Potter. I can count on my fingers the number of students I’ve had who cast a corporeal Patronus on the first try. Twenty-five points to Gryffindor.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said.

“The rest of you, keep at it,” he continued. “Almost any wizard can cast a corporeal Patronus if they keep at it long enough and aren’t a complete sociopath. It’s just that a lot of people don’t have the motivation to practise as much as they need to. I can tell you do.”

The kept trying. No one else managed to produce a corporeal Patronus in that class, although Hermione’s was definitely starting to mold itself into a quadrupedal shape. Still, it was a good start.

* * *

Harry woke up in the Hospital Wing on Saturday with a whanging headache.

_Wait, again? What happened? Wasn_ _’t I supposed to be playing Quidditch?_

With considerable effort, Harry pieced his scattered memory back together. He _had_ gone to the Quidditch match. It started out pretty normal. The Slytherins were doing their best to heckle both him and Ron, but they weren’t succeeding. Ron still had the occasional bad day, but they had a really solid team this year. But then…

“Oh, God,” he groaned loudly. “That bastard!”

He could see it clearly now. He and Malfoy had both spotted the Golden Snitch. They were racing after it, jockeying to get in front of each other. Harry still had the edge to coax that little bit more speed out of his broom. He was nearly on the Snitch, in fact, but then, one of the other Slytherin players buzzed them, and he noticed an all-too-familiar smell.

 _“Catnip!”_ he hissed. When he got out of there, he was going to Obliviate the entire school.

“A bit late for that, Potter.”

Harry whipped his head around in shock. Had he said that out loud? Draco Malfoy was standing over him. “You!” he shouted.

“Wasn’t me,” Malfoy insisted.

Harry lunged at him with a crackle of wandless magic, but an arm pulled him back. Hermione was on his other side. “It really wasn’t him, Harry,” she said. “I’m glad to see you’re up, though.”

“Wha…? What happened?” Harry asked.

“It was Crabbe,” Malfoy said. “Big idiot. I knew he was stupid, but I didn’t know he was _that_ stupid.”

“Crabbe? Yeah, right. Like Crabbe ever does anything on his own.”

“He didn’t get the idea it from me, Potter. I don’t cheat at Quidditch. I’m here to play you fair and square. Nott maybe would do it. Pansy possibly, but not me.”

Harry looked to Hermione for confirmation. “It’s true, Harry,” she said. “The Aurors questioned him. He had nothing to do with it.”

“Aurors?” he said in surprise.

“They questioned everyone involved. Professor McGonagall was furious. She wanted to see if there was a case for criminal charges.”

“Criminal charges?”

She sighed. “Harry, Crabbe could have killed you! Do you remember _anything_ that happened after he threw the catnip at you?”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fit the remaining pieces together. After he breathed in the catnip, he’d lost it, spinning through the air, doing handstands on his broom, and generally pulling all manner of stunts that would make Viktor Krum wet himself. And then…then, he saw a glint of gold and _jumped off his broom_ to pounce on the Snitch—the infamous Starfish Without Stick manoeuvre. And somehow, he actually _caught_ the Snitch on the way down and…and then Malfoy caught him.

“You caught me?” he said to Malfoy in disbelief.

“Please, Potter, I wasn’t about to let you fall fifty feet to your death in front of hundreds of witnesses. Besides, I owed you for saving me from the hailstorm two years ago. Now, we’re even.”

Harry stared at him for a minute, trying to decide if he was serious. Eventually, he decided he was and accepted it: “Well, thanks, Malfoy.”

“For the record, Potter, that just wasn’t fair.”

“Huh?”

“You. You were drunk off your arse, and you still beat me to the Snitch even though I had to save you. That’s just ridiculous.”

Harry gave him a lopsided grin: “Guess I’m just that good, Malfoy,” he said.

“Don’t push it Potter,” Malfoy scowled.

“So did they actually arrest anyone?”

“No,” Hermione grumbled. “Apparently, you only get arrested in Quidditch if you actually kill someone.”

Malfoy put on a fake grin: “Well, one of the fouls _is_ ‘attempted decapitation of a Keeper with a broadsword’, Granger. That’s how it’s always worked.”

Hermione glared at him. “Quidditch needs to get out of the Middle Ages, Malfoy, in more ways than one. Crabbe and Goyle are both off the team though, Harry. They got in a big fight with Madam Hooch and Professor McGonagall about whether it was actually a foul to throw herbs at the Seeker, and it was pretty clear they’d both planned it, so they’re out.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Malfoy agreed. “Anyway, Potter, seeing as you’re still alive, I’m done here.” He sauntered out of the room. Not far outside, however, he let himself collapse. This day was a total mess. Crabbe and Goyle off the team and totally discredited, his two best friends—okay, minions—too toxic to hang around with anymore, and him _saving_ Potter’s life. The last one was actually okay, he knew, despite his precarious position. All the Death Eaters knew the Dark Lord wanted Potter alive. But it still wasn’t going very well for him.

Meanwhile, Harry turned back to Hermione. Now that he got a good look, she looked tired and had definitely been crying. “So, is there anyone I can duel over this?” he said, half-trying to lighten the mood.

“A bit late for that, mate,” another voice said.

Harry forced himself up and was stunned to see across from him were lying Fred and George Weasley in adjacent beds. “Fred? George? What happened to you?”

“Ask your sister,” one of them said.

“And remind us never to tick her off again,” the other added.

“Hermione?” Harry said in confusion.

Hermione bit her lip. “Well, you see, they were the ones who revealed your weakness to catnip to the school, so I…kind of lost my temper and challenged them—er…informally.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You put two seventh-years in the Hospital Wing because you ‘lost your temper’?” he gasped. “Remind _me_ never to tick you off again.”

“I’m sorry! I just couldn’t take it,” she cried. “With the stress of the war and the kitten thing on Halloween, and the way people have been messing with you all year—it was just too much. And now I’ve got detention because of you!” She smacked him on the arm. “Don’t do that to me again!”

Harry winced. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “So…let me get this straight. Crabbe and Goyle tried to kill me. Malfoy saved me. And my sister got detention for me duelling the Weasley Twins?” She nodded awkwardly. “You know, some days, it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she groaned. “But there is one bit of good news.”

“What’s that?”

“Hagrid’s back.”

* * *

Harry made a mental note to have a serious talk with Hermione about her definition of ‘good news’ when he saw the state Hagrid was in. He was beaten bloody and seemed to be using some kind of frozen steak as a compress on his head. The cause of this was pretty clear. There was a _giant_ standing next to Hagrid. Not a giant like Hagrid was a giant, but an actual full-blooded giant. He towered head, shoulders, and chest over Hagrid and had an oversize, boulder-like head and thick grey skin like an elephant. The giant wore tattered clothes make of animal skins, and Harry noticed he had blood under his fingernails.

And Luna was calmly talking to him.

“I told you, Mione, it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed,” Harry groaned. He probably didn’t have to worry too much about Luna because Dumbledore was there too, having a serious talk with Hagrid presumably about recklessness and irresponsibility, but he didn’t want to take any chances, and he rushed to her side while Hermione stayed back.

 _“toki, Grawp. mi pona tan ni: mi sona e sina. nimi mi li Luna,”_ she said.

 _“toki, Luna,”_ the giant said. _“mi pona tan ni: mi sona e sina.”_

Of course, Harry remembered, his girlfriend spoke something like seven or eight languages, including Giant-Speak. “Um…Luna?” he said softly.

She turned and smiled at him. “Oh, hello, Harry. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. I was very worried when Crabbe attacked you until Malfoy caught you.” She turned back to the giant and said, _“Grawp, ni li mije pi mi. ona li Harry. toki tawa Grawp e ‘toki’, Harry.”_

“Uh, what?” he said as she looked at him expectantly.

“Say, _‘toki, Grawp’_ , and be sure to make eye contact,” she whispered with a fixed smile that made him very nervous. If even Luna Lovegood wasn’t oblivious to the danger, that was a bad sign.

“Er, _toki, Grawp,_ ” Harry said, waving up at the giant.

Harry jumped slightly as Grawp rumbled in response, _“toki, Harry.”_

 _“Harry, ni li Grawp,”_ Luna continued. _“ona li pata pi Hagrid.”_ Then, before he could ask, she translated, “Harry, this is Grawp. He is Hagrid’s brother.”

“Brother?” he gasped.

“ _pata? ona li pata pi Hagrid la tan wan mama._ He is Hagrid’s half-brother.”

Right, because Hagrid was half-giant—something Harry generally preferred not to think about. “And, uh, why is he here?” he asked.

 _“Grawp, seme li sina tawa tawa ma ni?”_ she called up to him.

Grawp thought for a moment and answered, _“Hagger kama e mi tawa ma ni.”_

“Hagrid brought him here,” Luna explained.

“Why?”

 _“Hagger kama e sina seme?”_ Luna said. Harry was starting to get a bit suspicious about the length of Giant-Speak sentences.

 _“jan mute suli mute. mi suli lili. ona pakala pini e mi,”_ Grawp said.

Luna frowned sadly: “The bigger giants hurt him.”

 _“Bigger giants?”_ he hissed.

He hadn’t meant it as a question for Grawp, but he noticed Grawp looking down at him in frustration at not understanding, so Luna asked it anyway: _“jan mute suli mute seme?”_

Instead of answering in words, Grawp nodded and stood on his toes and reached his arm as high as he could above his head to indicate their height.

Luna nodded firmly and said, _“o pona lon ma ni, Grawp. mi tu tawa.”_ She waved to him and quickly pulled Harry away by the arm.

 _“tawa pona,”_ Grawp said.

“Uh, what was that about?” Harry asked.

“I wished him good luck and told him we were leaving,” she said. “Sorry about that, Harry, but it’s very tricky talking to giants through a translator. You don’t want to disrespect them accidentally.”

Harry looked over his shoulder and couldn’t help but agree.

“You should really be fluent yourself before you talk to them,” Luna continued. “Besides, I think Professor Dumbledore wants to talk to Grawp. I can teach you _toki suli_ if you like, though,” she said. “It doesn’t take long to learn.”

“Teach what?”

“Giant-Speak, Harry. Their language is called _toki suli_ —literally ‘talk big’. It’s actually very poetic. It only has a hundred or so words, so it relies a lot on kennings and metaphors.”

Harry shook his head in resignation. Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any weirder. He looked back again and saw Dumbledore and Hagrid were indeed talking to Grawp in _toki suli_. He missed the first part of the conversation, but he caught Dumbledore saying, _“taso sina ken awen lon ma pi kasi suli mute la sina ike ala e la jan mute jo e monsi soweli.”_

“They were discussing why Grawp came and how he got here,” Luna whispered. “Professor Dumbledore said Grawp’s allowed to live in the Forest if he doesn’t disturb the centaurs,” Luna whispered.

“ _mi awen lon ma pi kasi suli li pona_ ,” Grawp replied.

“He agrees,” Luna said.

“…Seriously?” he questioned her.

“Well, literally, it meant ‘Me staying in place of big plants is good,’ but basically, he agrees.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but he thought better of it and closed it again. Having sealed the deal, Dumbledore said his goodbyes to Grawp and Hagrid and approached the young couple. “Good afternoon, Harry, Luna,” he said. “Harry, it is good to see you up and about. I’m deeply sorry about the attack on you at the game this morning, as impressive as your catch of the Snitch was. I have taken steps to ensure it will not happen again, and I daresay Professor McGonagall will be harsher than I am.”

“Er, thank you, Professor,” Harry said as Luna squeezed his hand. “So what’s going on with Hagrid?”

Dumbledore bowed his head slightly: “Last June, I sent Hagrid and Madam Maxime to Russia to try to recruit the giants to our cause. Hagrid can tell you the full story, but suffice it to say that Voldemort sent Macnair and Rowle, and the Death Eaters were more convincing. I’m afraid the giants are firmly on Voldemort’s side.”

“All of them?” Harry said.

“Not as such, but with giants, the _lawa_ —the Gurg or Chief in the older dialect—is the largest and strongest of the tribe, and it is most unwise to oppose him. Only Grawp was able to return with Hagrid to Britain. He left the tribe because he is, in fact, a dwarf, by giant standards, and the other giants persecuted him for his size.”

“Oh, that’s…too bad,” Harry said unconvincingly.

“Indeed, but the mission was not a total loss. Even one giant is an asset, and Hagrid and Madam Maxime did make some very interesting contacts in the Caucasus whom I suspect will be invaluable as the war goes on.”

Well, that was news to them, but Dumbledore didn’t elaborate. “Will Hagrid be teaching again, Professor?” Luna spoke up. She sounded resigned to Harry. She was friendly with the man, but Harry knew she didn’t care all that much for his teaching style.

“No, Miss Lovegood, I have advised Hagrid to take a sabbatical for the remainder of the year,” Dumbledore said. “He will need more time now to take care of Grawp, and it will be time for him to take his own O.W.L. examinations next spring, if you recall. However, I’m sure he will be delighted to have you visit any time.” He said this last bit with a nod to Harry. Harry supposed that was a fair deal. Hagrid never had been fully qualified as a wizard because of that debacle with his expulsion. Maybe getting his O.W.L.s wasn’t as important to him as a practical matter; what would he actually _do_ if he ever left Hogwarts? But Harry knew it would mean a lot to him.

* * *

By Monday, even the most sheltered students of Hogwarts were beginning to fear the morning paper as the news of deaths and dementor attacks had begun to be splashed across the front page on a near-daily basis, but they crowded around those of them who received copies just the same. Today, however, there was cause for happiness. “Oh, Harry,” Hermione said as she read the article. “The Brocklehurst Family announced the Diagonal Theatre’s Christmas play.”

“Oh? What is it?” Harry asked idly as he opened a letter from home.

_“The Battle of Hastings.”_

Harry looked up from the letter. “Hastings?” he said.

“Yes. Listen: ‘The Theatre has received a surprising surge of interest in historical plays in the past year, especially from Hogwarts students,’ Lord Brocklehurst said. According to the Company, this sudden interest can be attributed to Hogwarts’s first new History Professor in over a century, Remus Lupin (Gryffindor, ‘78). ‘In keeping with our program of restoring our cultural heritage,’ Lord Brocklehurst went on to explain, ‘we decided to illuminate one of the most iconic, but largely forgotten scenes from our history: the duel between Merlin and Armand Malfoy in 1066 that led to the formation of the Wizard’s Council, against the dramatic backdrop of the muggle Battle of Hastings, which handed over the kingdom—”

“Armand Malfoy?” Harry said. “They have the guts to do a play on the founder of the Malfoy Family.”

“I guess so,” Hermione said. “If anyone can do it, it’s Ethelred Brocklehurst. He’s established himself as being neutral in all the historical documentation he works on.”

“I guess, except there is no neutral in today’s politics,” Harry grumbled. “Does it say anything else?”

“Oh, the usual stuff about the play, who’s in it, where to get tickets—oh, this is interesting: ‘To ensure our account was as faithful as possible, we were fortunate to have the opportunity to interview the only available contemporary sources in Britain: Hogwarts ghosts Thegn Caerphilly [The Bloody Baron] and the Grey Lady of Ravenclaw—”

 _“Hallelujah!”_ Harry exclaimed.

Hermione looked up in surprise: “Well, it wasn’t _that_ exciting.”

“Not that, Mione. Mum and Dad’s letter!” Harry kissed the letter in his hand.

“What happened?”

“The _Doctor Who_ movie. It’s official! It’s airing next May.”

“ _Doctor Who_ movie?” she gasped.

“Awesome!” the Creevey Brothers exclaimed, and their sentiments were soon echoed by muggle-borns and a few half-bloods around the Great Hall, much to the confusion of the rest of the school. Now _that_ was a good day.

Across the Hall, Draco Malfoy smirked at their antics and went back to reading the article. It was well-balanced, in his opinion. Father might not like it, but he thought the draft script Amanda Brocklehurst had shown him was scrupulously fair and highlighted well the first Lord Malfoy’s political skill. Honestly, it was more in line with the image of his family he _wanted_ to live up to, and Mother agreed, at least. He was grateful the Company had given him the opportunity to advise them on behalf of the House of Malfoy. At least that was _one_ thing that was going right.

* * *

“I’ve got it!” La Pantera exclaimed. The Dark Lady jumped up from her work, hurried through the halls of Riddle Manor, and barged into the throne room as no one else in Britain could get away with.

Voldemort rose to his feet. “Lady Pantera,” he hissed. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Voldemort, I finished designing your ritual for you,” she said.

The Dark Lord’s eyes widened, and he shooed his followers out of the room at once. No one argued. When they were alone, he addressed his ‘colleague’: “You have reached a breakthrough in your research?”

“I solved it, you idiot,” she snapped. “Just like you wanted. To repair the damage you’ve done to your soul with the extra horcrux, we need to patch it over with a piece of another soul. That part’s obvious. The hard part was figuring out exactly what kind of soul to use. We need a soul with no will of its own so that it doesn’t affect your personality.”

“An infant, then,” he suggested.

“No, that’s what I thought at first, but it’s no good. And infant’s soul is too weak. It might shatter if I handle it too roughly, and its purity might throw off the ritual regardless. We need a soul that’s older—one that’s seen trials—preferably battle hardened so it can stand up to the stress of being murdered. We need a victim who has strength, but no will.”

“Like an Auror…” Voldemort mused. “An Auror who has _lost_ the power of reason. The Longbottoms—but they’ve recently made an extraordinary recovery, thanks to _Potter_.”

“Yes, I noticed,” La Pantera said. “I wonder how they did that. Hmm. Anyway, it _could_ have worked, but that’s actually not the best choice either. Madness caused by torture could have unexpected side effects, especially with the dark magic residue. What we need is someone who is naturally catatonic, not due to magic, but age or illness—irreversible coma, vegetable—it doesn’t matter how, as long as they have no will of their own left. It also needs to be someone who’s killed before—not necessarily murdered, but killed. It’s too hard to fracture a soul in a controlled fashion otherwise.”

“Ah, I see,” Voldemort said. “A soldier, then.”

She nodded: “A soldier. That’s your first target.”

“First?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fracturing someone _else_ _’s_ soul is different from making a horcrux, but it still takes a murder to do it. I just had to adjust the ritual some.” She handed him a list of items: “I’ll need these animals, a _healthy_ human sacrifice, several pints of blood, several pints of oil, and a dementor.”

He read the list. “Feasible,” he said. “And the ritual? How does it work?”

“Simple: we wrap the brainless soldier in the dementor’s cloak to loosen the damaged soul, perform the human sacrifice over him to fracture it, tear off strips to patch over your own soul, and feed whatever’s left to the dementor.”

“Ingenious. Any stipulations on the human sacrifice.”

“A champion—and male. Magical or muggle doesn’t matter, but he needs to be some kind of champion.”

Voldemort thought this over, and a plan slowly began to form in his mind. If he could get the intelligence he needed in time…yes, it would work: a Christmas offensive, he thought, and one that his enemies would never forget.


	10. The Battle of Hastings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Battle of Hastings belongs to William the Conqueror, but Armand Malfoy belongs to JK Rowling.
> 
> Once again, if anyone wants to write out The Battle of Hastings as a meta-fic, please feel free to do so, and PM me so I can read it.

After Halloween, knowing the dementors and Death Eaters were out attacking people indiscriminately, Harry wasn’t the only one trying to step up his game. Everyone wanted to learn to defend themselves better against what was out there. Professor Grayson still had them doing practical drills once a week in Defence. One week, they would have a Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw mass duel—still a free-for-all with no organization, but at least with coherent sides. The next week, he would break them up for four-on-four duels, or worse, four-on-two. “All’s fair in love and war,” he would say with a laughed that sounded unsettlingly like Mad-Eye Moody. He mixed it up quite a bit from week to week.

Remus was doing much the same in the Duelling Club. Most of the time was still dedicated to regular duelling, but every meeting, they did some exercise or other that was a group duel. For the club, Remus would mix and match groups from different years so that the older students had to protect and, if they could, find a useful role for the younger ones. That was more true to life in a real fight, he said, where any group of wizards would have a range of skills and ability levels.

It wasn’t _Ender_ _’s Game_ , and Hermione and Harry didn’t particularly want it to be. They were teaching civilians to defend themselves, not soldiers to fight a war, even if Harry was both, to a degree. But it gave everyone some more varied experience so they wouldn’t be blindsided by a situation they hadn’t encountered before.

“No, Mr. Finnigan,” Professor Grayson said, “we do _not_ need to appoint Mr. Potter a ‘general’, dress his ‘army’ in military fatigues, compete for points, _or_ devise overly-complicated rules for dealing with simulated traitors. That situation would assuredly dissolve into unmitigated chaos in the corridors and plans within plans that even the people who came up with them couldn’t figure out.”

“Aw,” Seamus said, disappointed.

“Look on the bright side, Seamus,” Harry said. “If I ever _do_ become a general, I’ll put you, Justin, and the Weasley Twins in charge of the ‘blowing stuff up’ division.”

“Gee, really, Harry?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Merlin help us,” Grayson said. “That might be enough to scare Voldemort away on its own. Alright, listen up, everyone,” he told the class as they stood out on the lawn. “As I told Mr. Finnigan, we will _not_ be building armies here, but this _is_ an exercise where teamwork is important: ‘Let my armies be the rocks and the trees and the birds in the sky.’ I want you to focus on the terrain manipulation spells we’ve been studying for the past couple weeks. If you can’t get to cover, as is the case here, raising barricades to block and hide from the enemy can mean the difference between life and death. Using your environment to attack and distract the enemy can be more effective than casting spells directly. This was a critical part of our strategy in Rwanda, and powerful wizards like Voldemort and La Pantera love to use big, area-effect attacks like that on their enemies, which you’ll need to be able to counter.”

The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws huddled briefly to discuss what to do, and they took their places across the open field. This was where the Ravenclaws really had a chance to shine. They could organise and plan a strategy faster and more effectively than the Gryffindors could. About half of them raised various shield charms while the others shifted earth to make a low ridge and something resembling a trench behind it to provide them cover. The Gryffindors, on the other hand, were haphazard about it. They tried to raise mounds or pillars, conjure walls or physical shields, and in a couple cases, paired up with one partner shielding and the other casting. Hermione and Harry were one such pair.

“No, no, no! Mobility is better!” Hermione called. “Quick, flank them!” Even in the magical world, trench warfare was usually a bad strategy. The other Gryffindors followed their lead, which nearly turned it into a rout in their favour, but the Ravenclaws regrouped quickly. They beat a hasty retreat, enlarging the grass to hide their movements and eventually taking cover behind the Gryffindors’ own pillars. Banished rocks and transfigured birds and bugs flew alongside spellfire on both sides to distract the enemy. Conjured wind and fog made the duel even more chaotic. When the dust cleared, the Ravenclaws had won, but Harry thought it was a good exercise all around.

“Very good,’’ Grayson said. “Now, _that_ _’s_ what I’m talking about. Let’s go back in and discuss what went right, and more importantly, what went wrong.”

Now _this_ was how Defence class was _supposed_ to run.

* * *

As December rolled around, the students became excited for Christmas, as always, but before that, for a few days, the real buzz was around Harry and, more notably, his latest book release. On the morning of the fifth, he received a sizable package by owl that had everyone wanting a look: a box set of _The Real Harry Potter Adventures,_ Volumes 1-3.

Harry’s latest book release, _Harry Potter and the Year of the Wolf_ , had what he considered the silliest cover illustration yet. It showed himself half-transformed into a cat and pouncing on an enormous, rabid wolf with one eye who was circling and fighting a smaller wolf and a black dog. It was especially silly because Harry was the one who clawed out Greyback’s eye _after_ that point in the fight. But still, it got Sirius and Remus on the cover, and it definitely looked cool. He was just disappointed that they couldn’t work Cedric in somehow.

The first two books in the set, _Harry Potter and the Philsopher_ _’s Stone_ (himself and Hermione defending a red stone from a wizard in a purple turban), and _Harry Potter and the Heir of Slytherin_ (himself and Neville fighting a giant snake with a sword), proudly proclaimed on their covers that they were new ‘Expanded Editions’, which would get a lot of attention by itself.

“Wow, you look good, Harry,” Ron said jokingly, indicating the half-cat cover.

“I look ridiculous,” Harry countered.

“No, really—like some kind of super cat-wizard.”

“What have you been reading muggle comic books now?”

Hermione giggled: “That would be good: The Adventures of Catman.”’

“Oh, no you don’t,” Harry pointed at her. “If that nickname hits the papers, it’ll be The Adventures of Catman and Ottergirl by sundown.”

“You wouldn’t!” Hermione mock-gasped.

“Don’t try me, Mione.”

The pair’s friends just laughed at their antics. “So these ‘new editions’? They’ve got all your cat stuff in them?” Ginny asked.

“Yeah, we added all the stuff I did as a cat back in,” Harry said. “Book Two didn’t really make sense without it.”

“Yeah…I kind of noticed,” Ginny said, blushing. “I mean, _I_ understood it because…you know…” She shivered slightly, and Harry noticed Colin squeeze her hand. “But it left a lot out.”

“Well, it should be a lot clearer now,” Harry agreed.

A few other people had got owl orders for the books in today, and a lot of others were huddled around them. One of the few things Harry appreciated about his fame was that it was easy to get the real story about what happened out when it mattered. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he couldn’t have convinced Fudge of Voldemort’s return. “Hmm,” he mused, “I wonder if I should step it up and try to get _Harry Potter and the Tournament of Doom_ out next summer.”

“Harry, that one’s all about Voldemort,” Hermione protested. “I’m not sure it’s safe to write that one at all.”

“But telling the truth about him is important, and it’s better to do it sooner before he can get more power, isn’t it? Besides, he already wants to kill me. What else can he do?”

Hermione stared at him with a deadpan expression. “Do you really want me to answer that?” she said. Her brother looked a little uncomfortable and wisely didn’t respond. “Besides, do you even have time to get it done that fast with everything else we’re doing?” she added.

“It actually doesn’t take that long with a Dictaquill. If I can finish a draft over Christmas holidays so I can get it to Dumbledore to be redacted—”

Hermione rolled her eyes: “Whoa, slow down, furball. Let’s talk to Mum and Dad before you go all crazy on me.”

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Harry did have one other notable piece of mail that day—an official-looking letter on muggle paper. He frowned as he opened it.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione asked. “Is something wrong?”

Harry skimmed the letter to confirm what he expected: “Uncle Vernon got out of prison.”

Hermione gasped. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I knew it was coming this time. I remembered Aunt Petunia got out at the same time last year.”

“Are you sure? I know he was worse than your aunt.”

“I’m fine, Hermione. He doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. He couldn’t hurt me even if he knew where to find me.”

“Well…alright, then,” she said. “Are you…are you going to contact him? Warn him about Voldemort?”

“Hell no!” he spat coldly. “He can fend for himself. If Aunt Petunia wants to warn him, that’s her business.”

Hermione and much of Gryffindor Table stared at Harry uncomfortably, and she had a feeling that he wasn’t feeling quite as alright inside as he said. Although, the fact that even Luna didn’t tell him to turn the other cheek in this case was very telling.

* * *

That issue aside, Harry was cheerful during the holiday season, as was the rest of the school, as much as they could be with the spectre of Voldemort looming over them. The paper spoke daily of rumours of Death Eater attacks, sightings of Voldemort and La Pantera and even other powerful wizards who had supposedly sneaked into Britain to join their cause. Most people didn’t believe too many of them, but the ones they did were enough.

The Christmas Leaving Feast was the traditional time for people to exchange gifts if they weren’t going to see each other over the holiday. Harry was going to see Luna and many of his friends at the Diagonal Theatre’s Christmas play and at Sirius’s New Year’s party, so he only really had one that he needed to give. However, he was more worried about the gift that was placed in front of him: a large, gift-wrapped box with the Weasley Twins standing over it, grinning.

“Seriously, guys?” he said.

“Of course, Harrikins,” Fred replied, his rather scary grin not wavering for a moment.

“We couldn’t let you go home without a proper Christmas gift,” George said. They both stood there, staring at him, making it clear that they weren’t going to back off unless he opened the box.

Harry looked down at his present and back up at them. “You know if there’s catnip in this box, I’m throwing you out the window,” he informed them.

“Certainly not,” Fred said.

“We learnt our lesson there. Honest,” George agreed.

Harry scanned the box thoroughly regardless and was surprised to find no active magic on it, nor any obvious potions. This only made him more suspicious. He could think of any number of pranks that didn’t involve magic—a pie on a spring, perhaps. Thus, he stood off to the side and opened if from arm’s length. Everyone near him took a large step back just in case.

Nothing jumped out at him when he opened the box, but he groaned softly when he saw what was inside. Harry reached in and lifted up an enormous ball of yarn nearly as large as a Quaffle. Everyone around him laughed while he merely rolled his eyes.

“What do you think?” asked the Twins in unison.

“Well…this is awkward,” Harry said.

“Why?” the Twins asked.

“Mr. Potter!” Professor McGonagall called from the High Table. “This is _not_ appropriate.” She was holding up a similar ball of yarn—her gift from Harry.

Luckily for Harry (or maybe unluckily), that got even more laughs than his own gift, so things worked out.

“I think I’m a little bit offended, Georgie,” Fred said.

“Why’s that, Freddie?” his twin replied. “We’ve got Harrikins pulling pranks.”

“Yes, but not only did he copy our gag, but he got more laughs than when we pulled it on McGonagall in our first year.”

“Ah, indubitably, brother,” said George, “but as you know, timing is the soul of comedy, and we totally set him up for that one.”

“You guys are dorks,” Harry said.

“We _prefer_ Pranksters Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary,” George said. “And we totally did give you a boost on that prank.”

“Fine, I admit it,” he said. “Still, the ball of yarn is not cool after _you_ started the catnip thing.”

“Aw, I think it suits you, Harry,” Luna said from behind him.

“It suited me when I was five, Luna,” he replied. “I really don’t think—” He trailed off and hummed to himself as Luna reached up and started scratching him behind the ear. Wow, he was tenser than he thought these days.

Fred and George sniggered at the couple along with most of their friends. “I think little Luna’s outmatched us, George,” Fred said.

“I always said she was a smart cookie. She knows how to pick ‘em _and_ how to tame ‘em.”

“It’s all the experience working with magical creatures,” Luna played along.

“Well, Harry is definitely a magical _creature_ ,” Hermione agreed.

“Hey, cool it, Ottergirl,” Harry said. “Luna’s the only one allowed to call me that.”

“Don’t try me, Catman,” Hermione said, and Harry groaned.

* * *

As always, the Diagonal Theatre’s Christmas play was the social event of the year. Even the simmering war couldn’t stop all the rich purebloods from coming out and flaunting their wealth, and given the subject matter, the Malfoy family was the centre of attention even more so than usual.

When the Grangers walked into the Theatre, they saw the Malfoys standing with the Brocklehurst Family looking far more cordial than they had in previous years—or at least Narcissa and Draco did. Lucius was standing a little ways back with a serious expression on his face. They weren’t sure what to make of that. Narcissa Malfoy’s dress robes, they noted, looked like an elegant evening gown that conspicuously left her forearms bare, and if that wasn’t a statement in the present climate, they didn’t know what was.

“Ah, Lord Potter,” the ancient Ethelred Brocklehurst called Harry over. “Glad you could make it.”

“We wouldn’t miss it, Lord Brocklehurst,” Harry said, shaking the old man’s hand. “The Company’s plays are always entertaining.”

Luna was on Harry’s arm (her father standing close by in his capacity as a reporter), and she also shook his hand and said, “My favourite was _The Voyages of Odo the Hero_.” Probably the least relevant play they had done since Harry had started going, but that was Luna.

“Thank you, my dear,” Lord Brocklehurst said. “Ah, and Professor Lupin,” he spotted Remus, “the inspiration for tonight’s performance.”

“Well, I can’t take all the credit, Lord Brocklehurst,” Remus said.

“Nonsense, Professor. The letters to the Company expressing interest in new historical plays began pouring in the very week you began teaching History at Hogwarts. My own great-granddaughter, Amanda, said that she actually enjoyed the subject for the first time in your class.”

“Well, thank you—”

They heard a woman clear her throat. Rita Skeeter was skittering about the event and naturally soon came upon the most famous cluster of wizards in the room. “And of course, here we have the _other_ inspiration for tonight’s performance,” she said. “The Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Miss Skeeter,” Lucius Malfoy said disinterestedly.

“So how do you feel, Lord Malfoy, about this renewed focus on your family’s early history?” she asked. It was her usual gossip-mongering in part, but quite a few people _were_ interested in what he had to say. Family history was a touchy subject these days, and the Malfoys hadn’t made a statement on the play yet.

“I admit I was sceptical when I heard about the subject matter of this year’s play,” Lucius said. “But Narcissa and Draco counselled me to reserve my judgement, so I expect it will be a very _enlightening_ evening.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, Father,” Draco spoke up. “After all, I helped write the script.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. So did Lucius’s. So did a lot of people’s, in fact. And Rita—well, actually, she was smart enough to see that Draco had set that up, if she wasn’t in on it already, but she wasn’t going to look a gift hippogriff in the beak.

“ _You_ helped to write the script, young Mr. Malfoy?” Skeeter asked. “I didn’t know any of the House of Malfoy were involved in the project.”

“Just a small advisory role, really,” Draco clarified, “ensuring the accuracy of the subject matter and so forth, making sure it upheld the honour of the Malfoy name…” He turned to look at his parents. “My Christmas gift to you, Father,” he said.

Lucius looked genuinely surprised. Narcissa, interestingly, didn’t. “Why, Draco, I am touched. I was pleased to see you taking an interest in our family heritage, but I am especially gratified to see you taking an active role in our present affairs.” He turned to his wife: “Did you know about this, Narcissa?” He had a bit of an edge to his voice there.

“I did, Lucius,” she said. “It was Draco’s idea, and I thought it would be a wonderful Christmas gift for you.”

“Well…it certainly was. I’m definitely looking forward to it now.”

Harry and Hermione both stared at Draco, wondering what he was playing at. The Company had leaned quite pro-muggle in the past, but with the Malfoys getting actively involved with it, they wondered if something had changed. But neither of them could really ask before the show started. They would just have to watch and find out.

The play opened with a sweeping overture, as always, and Armand Malfoy, a powerful, albeit not well-liked wizarding nobleman in France, making his way to the muggle Duke of Normandy and approaching him with an audacious plan: the conquest of England in the wake of the death of Edward the Confessor.

Edward’s successor, Harold Godwinson, Malfoy claimed, was a weak ruler who had taken the throne in a suspect political power grab and would be easy to subdue. To sweeten the pot, Malfoy told Duke William what his Seers had allegedly told him: that King Harald Hardrada of Norway would also invade England in a few months, further weakening Harold’s grip. Even with this news, though, Duke William was initially hesitant, but Armand Malfoy then revealed his secret weapon: Mordred, the bastard son of Sir Arthur Pendragon, and a powerful wizard in his own right who was hellbent on revenge.

“King” Arthur—the _real_ Arthur—was Sir Arthur Pendragon, squib half-brother to the Dark Lady Morgana and Sovereign of the Round Table, a chivalric order of wizards and muggles that had taken it upon themselves to unite the wizards of Great Britain under one banner. Sir Arthur was covertly allied with the muggle rulers of the time, including King Cnut of England and Malcolm II of Scotland at the start of his tenure. In the wizarding stories, he was most famous for his later dealings with Macbeth and Edward the Confessor. In the muggle world, however, fictionalised accounts of his reign set in the post-Roman period began leaking out in the ensuing centuries, as first codified by Geoffrey of Monmouth, which was why the material was so unfamiliar to the Grangers. Dan and Emma learnt more about the _real_ history of “King Arthur” from the play than they had ever known before.

Armand Malfoy’s plan was simple enough. Mordred and his followers would attack the Sir Arthur and the Order of the Round Table, taking them out of the fight, giving Duke William the opening to attack Harold Godwinson. But that was only two of the three legs of England’s defence, for Sir Arthur had a magical ally of his own: Merlin.

Merlin Ambrosius, or Myrddin Emrys, was a powerful Welsh wizard who was part of Salazar Slytherin’s inaugural class at Hogwarts, graduating, it was believed, in the year 997 after performing feats of magic that dazzled even the Founders. His story was even more nebulous than Arthur’s in the muggle accounts, with Geoffrey having given him only a small (and inaccurate) role in his _Historia_ , but to wizards, he was one of the most famous mages in history. When he came on stage, the preternaturally young-looking Merlin was portrayed as a long-time friend and ally of Arthur, and a powerful enchanter the likes of whom had not been seen before or since.

It was clear from the beginning that Malfoy was playing a larger game than he was saying. First, he warned Mordred sternly not to attack Merlin and his allies and to focus on Sir Arthur. Mordred was bitter and revenge-obsessed and clearly needed someone to reign him in, but Malfoy was the cool calculator and played precisely that role for him. It was hard to tell just what he was up to, but he genuinely did seem to be trying to win the war with little bloodshed.

It began to be clearer, though, at the end of the first act when he gave a soliloquy on how Sir Arthur was weakening his court and, by extension, magical England. Arthur’s natural flaws, along with those of Dame Guinevere and Sir Lancelot, he said, were threatening to undermine the entire Round Table, while England’s magical lords, among them the surviving Founders of Hogwarts and increasingly even Merlin himself, were being shut out of the decision making. No longer wanted in France and looking to make a new life for himself, Armand Malfoy vowed not just to conquer England, but rebuild its magical society there in the process—with himself at the centre, of course.

The special effects in the play were brilliant, as always—effects that dazzled even the magical audience as Merlin shapeshifted with an ease that would make a Metamorphmagus jealous (the scholars were divided on whether he was one), conjured up vivid images of the future, and performed great feats of nature magic in a duel with Morgana. Similarly, the magical and muggle armies amassed by Malfoy, Mordred, and Duke William seemed to stretch into the distance behind the stage, and the audience could feel the salt spray when their fleet crossed the Channel.

When the Battle of Hastings came, it was stunning. The whole time while Malfoy’s forces battled the English wizards, the sights and sounds of the muggle battle were running in the background. Amazing feats of magic were performed on both sides, and at the climactic moment, Mordred killed his father with a dark curse. But then, there was a sudden reversal: Mordred forgot Malfoy’s orders and attacked Merlin. Malfoy himself opposed him, and the battle turned into a three-way duel between Mordred, Merlin, and Malfoy. Malfoy landed the fatal blow on Mordred, ending the mad wizard’s campaign, but then, in yet another reversal, Merlin defeated Armand Malfoy in seconds and threw him to the ground.

It looked like it was all over, but even as he lay on the ground with Merlin’s staff at his throat, Armand Malfoy began to speak. “My own defeat means nothing, Lord Merlin,” he said. “Arthur Pendragon and Harold Godwinson are dead, and Duke William is now King of England.”

“It will mean something if you can do no more harm to this land,” Merlin told him. “Arthur’s loss will not go unavenged.”

Malfoy shook his head: “I am truly sorry that your friend could not be saved, but we both know he made his own bed with his son. You saw that I myself could not control Mordred, and if he had not done it, one of Arthur’s other enemies would have killed him soon enough. As for myself, I have no wish to spill any more magical blood this day.”

“Easy to say for the man whose blood it is to be spilt,” Merlin said coldly. “Hold your silver tongue, Lord Malfoy. We both know you have come to England to overturn the Round Table.”

“Have I?” Malfoy replied smoothly as he tied together the hints that had been foreshadowed in his earlier scheming. “The Round Table would have collapsed under its own weight within five years even without my help. Its leadership was rotten to the core. You knew this. You warned them yourself, and they did not heed you. But Britain has powerful wizards aplenty who could replace them. Think how much more we could do if we were allied together.”

“And you would make yourself one of us?” said Merlin. “You who attacked us in our homeland?”

“I who could demand your surrender solely by virtue of the muggle army at by back,” he corrected. “You _are_ the superior warlock, Lord Merlin—possibly the greatest who has ever lived. I do not dispute that. But you are only one man. Your Lord Gryffindor and Lady Hufflepuff are old and have not your power. Could even you stand alone against twelve thousand men?”

For the first time, Merlin began to show indecision. Slowly, he lowered his staff, and Malfoy seized the opportunity.

“I do not seek conquest, Lord Merlin,” he said. “I am no would-be king like Arthur was. But I offer my wand, as does the House of Peverell and your old friends, the exiled House of Slytherin, in the service of a new, stronger, magical Britain—one insulated from the petty wars of succession of the muggles, their inevitable conflicts with Scotland and France—one that will not _need_ to involve itself in wars like this one—one that can live at peace.”

Merlin scoffed at these words, but then he looked out at the twelve thousand men and was forced to reconsider. Malfoy was right: no wizard could stand up to an army that powerful. He also consulted with Godric Gryffindor and Helga Hufflepuff, and they agreed it was a fairer offer than they could hope to get from the new King William, and so, while they still didn’t much care for Armand Malfoy, they accepted his deal and gave him, Argos Peverell, and Franco Slytherin a role in the founding of the new Wizard’s Council, ushering in a long period of peace in magical Britain.

Unusually for a Christmas pageant, the play was steeped in moral ambiguity. Both Merlin and King William were well-liked figures in the wizarding world despite being on opposite sides, while Mordred certainly was not, and Armand Malfoy and his actions were nothing if not controversial. Perhaps it was the tenor of the times that made people morbidly interested in such stories.

Harry was surprised that Draco Malfoy had been involved in such a play, portraying his family in that way. And when it was over, he was equally surprised that Lucius Malfoy seemed reasonably pleased with it. But then again, perhaps Armand Malfoy’s scheming to take out his competition and gain a position of power without excessive magical bloodshed was exact the sort of thing the Malfoy Family stood for. It was certainly better than the bloody civil war that Voldemort had started in modern times, at least to wizards. He’d have to keep an eye out to see what they were up to.

* * *

The Death Eaters—those who weren’t at the social event of the year because they were poor or wanted by the law or both—affected a belief in Yule (it was easier to get around that pesky “peace on Earth and goodwill to men” thing that way), but in practice, it was really just another Christmas celebration. It was something they had done on an annual basis during the last war, though not at Riddle Manor, and it wouldn’t have been notable except that this year, their revelry was interrupted.

A man entered Riddle Manor who was not privy to its concealment spells, walking right through Lady Pantera’s Chameleon Ward and up to the throne room. Voldemort was given only a few seconds after his Alarm Charms went off before the door crashed open, and the torchlight flickered across the man’s face.

The man was large, broad-shouldered, and easily as tall as Rowle, the tallest of the Death Eaters. He wore a loose-fitting cloak over a bare chest, and his skin was dark and heavily lined with tattoos. His eyes glowed with a faint blue cast, just as Voldemort’s did with a red one—a feature he had _not_ had the last time he had been seen: the Evil Eye.

All talking and merriment ceased as Voldemort and his followers stood at once to face him.

“It seems we have an unexpected guest…” Voldemort said. There was a pregnant pause as everyone waited for the other shoe to drop. “…unexpected…but not uninvited,” he finished. “Kinani Ngeze, the Invincible would-be Dark Lord of Kinshasa. I see you have received my summons.”

“I am summoned by no one, Voldemort,” the visitor said in a deep, accented voice. The Death Eaters tensed, as only La Pantera had called the Dark Lord by his name so casually. “But I received your offer to work together against your enemies. I am here to take you up on that offer. I have unfinished business with that dog Edward Grayson.”

Voldemort smiled. That wasn’t a good sign. “And you will have the opportunity to finish that business before the coming year is out,” he said. “Come. We will discuss with Lady Pantera our plans for tomorrow.”

“And what is happening tomorrow, Voldemort?” Ngeze said.

“A strike at the very heart of my enemies that will make them quake with fear before me…Incidentally, how are you at wardbreaking, Lord Ngeze?”


	11. Boxing Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: By the power of JK Rowling, I compel this story to LIVE!
> 
> I have made some small changes to this chapter to make the next chapter work better.

Harry repeated his assessment from a few weeks earlier. Some days, it just didn’t pay to get out of bed.

Boxing Day was intended as a day to relax from the Christmas excitement, and true, the Grangers were expecting some guests. However, those guests were _not_ supposed to be there in the morning. When Dan answered the door, backed up by Harry, he was surprised to see Dora standing there.

“Hello, Dora. We weren’t expecting you,” Dan said. “What’s up?”

“Wotcher, Dan, Harry,” she replied. “I’m on security duty again.”

“Is something wrong?” Harry asked worriedly.

“Probably not here. This is just in case. Apparently, Fan Tong’s been making prophecies all week about something big happening today—something about an immovable object and crushing a bailiwick and the fall of a great tower…or something like that. It’s hard to tell with her. We think You-Know-Who might be making a play for Hogwarts, so the Aurors are on high alert there, but they wanted me standing guard here in case you go out.”

“Ah, well, you’re welcome to stay for the day today, Dora,” Dan said. “We’re not really planning on going anywhere, although we _will_ be having company over later.”

“You will? Who?”

“Our friends Paul and Tiffany,” Harry said. “You met them last summer.”

“At the cinema, right? I seem to remember that not going so well.”

“I know, but Hermione and I wanted to try to reach out to them for the holiday—as an olive branch, you know? Things are getting so dangerous, and we get so few chances to talk to them…”

“Yeah, I see where you’re coming from,” Dora agreed. “This isn’t a time to hold grudges. That’s fine, then. I’ll just be here in case any dark wizards show up.”

“Um…thanks for the help, I guess?” Harry said. Really, if the Death Eaters _did_ come to call, there wouldn’t be much they could do but hold out for the Aurors or escape through the Floo, but three wands were better than two.

Paul and Tiffany arrived in the late afternoon—separately, this time. They’d apparently made a clean break in their relationship, seeing as they didn’t get too awkward around each other. Indeed, it was a much more awkward for them interacting with Harry and Hermione over dinner.

“So you just came over for the holidays, Dora?” Tiffany asked.

“Yep. Wanted to see my adorable cousins.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Well, you _were_ adorable when we first met. You remember how they were at that age, don’t you?” she asked the guests. “And compared with Cousin Sirius, they definitely—”

“Wait, isn’t Sirius your godfather?” Paul said. “The one who was in prison?”

“Exonerated,” Dora said.

“It’s complicated,” Harry said at nearly the same time. “Dora’s a cousin from my birth family. I don’t know if we mentioned that to you before. And Sirius—you don’t _want_ to know what his family tree looks like. It’s not pretty.”

“Wow, sounds like your whole family were real characters,” Paul said.

Harry thought back over the stories of the Marauders’ antics and said, “Yeah, kinda.”

They talked about their holidays for a while, and what Paul and Tiffany had been up to (things had been going well enough for them) but Harry and Hermione naturally avoided the topic of Hogwarts. Even though the muggles knew a little, it wasn’t something they wanted to talk about much, although it was inevitable that it would come up sooner or later.

“So how have things been at Hogwarts School for Gifted Youngsters?” Paul asked.

Tonks choked on her Christmas ham a little bit.

“Ah, some good, some bad,” Harry said. “A lot of really vicious rumours going around about me up till Halloween.”

“Really? Like what?”

Harry fixed Paul and Tiffany with a feline stare. “You _don_ _’t_ want to know,” he said.

Their friends were a little taken aback. Tiffany looked at him and his sister uncomfortably and said, “Harry, is it really that bad?”

“Yeah, they were. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Not just the rumours. I mean—everything,” she said. “I know your friend was killed, but…you’re not like you used to be—neither of you.”

“Yeah, no alien invasion yet, mate?” Paul said. Tiffany groaned and smacked him in the arm.

Harry said, “Well, there was a giant on the grounds a few weeks ago. Luna taught me his language.” But his heart wasn’t in it.

“Harry!” Dora exclaimed before she realised she was drawing more attention than he was. Hermione whispered something to her, and she shut up.

“Look, it’s just been a crappy year,” Harry said. “It’s like one thing after another has gone wrong…Um…we saw a great play yesterday, though. There’s this small theatre company that always does a nice Christmas play. This was an in-house drama about the Battle of Hastings…it was a lot more interesting than it sounds.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you were that into theatre,” said Tiffany.

“Some,” Hermione said. “This place does mostly fantasy—a little on the amateur side, but they’re pretty good. One of our classmates’ family owns it.”

That was enough of an icebreaker for Harry and Hermione to give a sufficiently vague account of the plays they had seen. They changed a number of the elements to more traditional muggle fantasy ones—Dora knew enough muggle literature to understand what they were doing—and conflated the Arthurian elements of _The Battle of Hastings_ with the other play the Theatre had done about Merlin two years ago, but the muggles found their descriptions entertaining and surprisingly interesting.

After dinner, the conversation had grown easier as they talked about lighter matters. The subject of muggle films came up, and apparently, there had been quite a few good ones besides _Braveheart_ this year.

“It’d be nice to go see another one together just as friends,” Hermione said. “Do you think there’s still time to see _Toy Story?_ ”

“ _Toy Story?_ ” Paul said, wrinkling his nose. “Not _Magic Island_ or _Jumanji?_ ”

“Not _Jumanji_ ,” Harry said softly. “Don’t really care for monster movies these days.”

Paul looked like he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue and shook his head.

“Look, it’s just that we’ve had a bad year, and I think we need something light and fluffy,” Hermione said, but with a grin, she added, “Although personally, I think Harry’s just never got over _Jurassic Park_.”

Everyone laughed except for Harry, although even he chuckled a little. That wasn’t the reason, although the T-Rex _had_ been inordinately scary on the big screen.

Suddenly, Harry, Hermione, and Dora all stopped laughing and froze. That sat bolt upright and looked at each other.

“Crap!” they said.

“Anti-Apparition Wards!” Dora yelled. She, Harry, and Hermione all jumped from their seats and ran to the windows and pulled small, carved sticks seemingly out of nowhere. Dan and Emma jumped up just afterwards.

“What?” Paul and Tiffany said worriedly.

Dan and Emma had already sprung into action, Emma grabbing emergency supplies and Dan _loading a shotgun_.

“What the hell?” Paul said.

“How many?” asked Dan.

“I’ve got four Death Eaters on this side,” Harry said peeking out a window.

“And four more over here,” Hermione added.

“Crap. There’s too many to fight,” Tonks said. She produced a silvery light from her stick, which flew through the wall. “We’ll have to evacuate through the Floo if we don’t get help fast.”

“What’s going on?” Tiffany cried.

A rumble like a rockslide came from outside as spells began to impact on the wards. Both of the muggle children jumped in fright.

“How long will the wards hold out?” Hermione asked.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Paul.

“Dumbledore set them. A few minutes, at least—plenty of time if you hurry up getting your things.”

“Guys, seriously what’s going on?” Tiffany said fearfully. She glanced out the nearest window. “What’s with the guys in cloaks?”

“Keep away from the windows!” Dora said.

“And why does that big black guy have glowing tattoos?” Paul added as he looked out the window in the front door.

 _“WHAT?!”_ Dora yelled, and she ran to look, pushing him out of the way. Her reaction was a tirade of profanity that was impressive even for her. Something that sounded like a massive explosion shook the house. “New plan!” she yelled. “No time to pack! We’ve gotta get out of here _now!_ ”

“Open the Floo!” Hermione said. “ _Accio_ emergency kits!”

An even louder explosion shook the house and made plaster fall from the ceiling. The two muggle teens screamed, but the Grangers were moving with determination. Supplies flew down the stairs to Harry and Hermione, who were waving their little sticks like Dora. Meanwhile, Emma threw a handful of something into the fireplace and shouted “Hogwarts!” Green flames appeared within and a voice began to speak.

“Boss, we’ve got eight Death Eaters and Kinani Ngeze here!” Dora cut the voice off. “We’re coming through and bringing two guests.”

“Quick, get in the fireplace!” Harry told Paul and Tiffany.

 _“What?!”_ they said in horror.

Another explosion hit, and they could hear something crash upstairs.

“Dan, Emma, you first,” Dora called, and to the guests’ horror the Grangers ran into the green flames and vanished.

“Just do it, and we’ll explain later,” Harry said. He and Hermione started to push them towards the fireplace, but they resisted. Suddenly, their friends gestured oddly, and they felt themselves be pushed by a much stronger force that came from nowhere—striking them hard in their chests and throwing them back into the green flames. They screamed again.

 _BOOM!_ The front window blew in as the wards shattered. The Death Eaters surged forward.

“Dora, hurry!” Harry yelled. _BOOM!_ The front door blew in, slamming against the opposite wall. He and Hermione were already running, holding up Shield Charms and sliding through the Floo with their own emergency supplies one after the other.

* * *

Dora dove out of the fireplace and into Dumbledore’s office just before a blast of hot, orange flames and debris blew through behind her, and the Floo immediately winked out. A half-dozen of the Headmaster’s instruments were upended and smashed on the floor by her entrance and the billowing fire.

“What happened?” Dumbledore asked sharply. He seemed to have lost the demeanour of a pleasant old man and became a battle-hardened warrior before their eyes as they came through.

 _“Ahhh!”_ came a scream.

“What the hell?”

“Where are we?”

“How did we get here?”

“What happened?”

“What’s going on?”

“Are you aliens?”

Paul and Tiffany had come to their senses and were clinging to each other and crouching low, their eyes darting around the office like a pair of frightened animals. Harry could guess it was a horrible shock, being thrown into a raging fire and winding up somewhere else.

“Look, guys, I’m really sorry about—” Harry started.

_“NO!”_

_“DON’T!”_

He froze. “What?” he said in confusion.

“Don’t you see where we are, mate?”

Harry looked around the room, befuddled. “Um…an office?” he ventured.

“An office?” Paul said in horror. “How the hell—? Harry, we’re on this crazy rickety platform like two hundred feet in the air!”

“Huh?”

“It’s the Anti-Muggle Charms,” Dora said suddenly. “They’re making them see the castle as a ruin—a ruin where this tower isn’t even here, so they see it as a platform.”

“Anti-what?”

“Castle?”

“Alright, Paul, Tiffany, listen,” Harry took charge. “Stay there. It’s going to be alright.” He made a show of stepping towards them very carefully across the floor. “Things aren’t as they appear here.”

“Harry, please, what’s going on? Where are we?” Tiffany said, on the verge of tears.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Harry said. “You have to see it. Professor, do you have any spare Anti-Anti-Muggle charms?”

The two muggles turned around and for the first time noticed the old, white-bearded man dressed as a stereotypical wizard standing behind them on what seemed to be rotting floorboards that couldn’t possibly support his weight. “Who the hell are you?” Paul said.

“Albus Dumbledore, my boy,” the old man said, “and under the circumstances, yes, I think we can make an exception.” He mimed opening an invisible drawer and rummaging around inside it. Then, he pulled two medallions seemingly out of thin air and tossed them to Harry, who caught them expertly.

“Look, guys,” Harry told them. “This is a lot to take in, but the short version is, magic is real.”

“What?”

“Just put the necklaces on, and you’ll see.”

He held out the medallions. Paul looked very confused, but he slowly took one, examined it, and placed it over his head, followed by Tiffany. Their eyes grew to the size of saucers as the scene changed from a rickety platform amid a stone ruin to a magical room filled with activity and impossible things.

“Bloody. Buggering. Hell.”

“Yeah, that’s what we thought the first time,” Harry said. “Welcome…to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“Hogwarts…” Paul started.

“…School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?” Tiffany finished.

“This is where we’ve been going to school for the past four years,” Hermione explained. “It’s invisible to people without magic. The necklaces let you see it.”

“So you’re…you’re a…” Tiffany stammered.

“A witch, yes. And Harry’s a wizard.”

“But…how?” Paul said.

“We were born that way,” Harry said. “Magic is genetics, as far as we know.”

“Magic. Bloody hell… _Bloody hell!_ ” he exclaimed when he made the connection. “So all those crazy stories you used to tell…?”

“All true.”

“And…and your friend?” asked Tiffany.

A fierce, feline snarl crossed Harry’s face. “Murdered by an evil wizard—an evil wizard who was trying to get to _me_.”

Paul’s and Tiffany’s eyes grew wider, and they took a step back from Harry, bumping into Dumbledore’s desk. “Is that what happened tonight?” Tiffany asked quietly. “He came for you again?”

“Yes—well, not exactly. Those were a bunch of his lackeys,” Dora said. “You-Know-Who wasn’t there himself.”

“Who?” the muggles said.

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes: “His name is Voldemort, but most wizards call him You-Know-Who because they’re scared to say his name. Whole lot of nonsense.”

“Speak for yourself, Harry,” Dora said. “Not all of us can be as brave as you are.”

“Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself, Nymphadora,” Dumbledore said.

“Don’t call me Nymphadora,” she told him.

Paul’s and Tiffany’s mouths dropped open. _“Nymphadora?”_ Paul said.

“Don’t call me that!”

“Your name is Nymphadora?” Tiffany asked.

“I said don’t call me that!” She raised her wand, and her hair flashed red.

Paul didn’t give up. “Seriously, _Nymph_?” he said.

“I will seriously jinx you! It’s not muggle-baiting if you already know about magic.”

“Mug-what?”

“Dora!” Hermione hissed, forcing her arm down. “This isn’t the time.”

She relented, lowering her wand. The attention shifted back to the two “guests”. Dumbledore regarded them carefully and told them, “I apologise for the circumstances of your arrival. The revelation of magic can come as a shock to those who do not know of it. Now, you are Mr. Talbot and Miss Morley, if I don’t miss my guess?”

“Er…yeah, how did you know?”

“A wizard has his ways, Mr. Talbot…” Dumbledore said with a mysterious air, and the pair flinched, “but in this case, it was easy to guess from what Harry and Hermione have said about you. Now, I wish to welcome you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster.”

“Um…pleased to meet you,” they said, and they both shook Dumbledore’s hand.

“Okay, then, from the top,” Paul said, looking back at Harry. “Magic is real?”

“Yes,” everyone said.

“And you said it’s like…genetic, and stuff?”

“As far as we can tell,” Dan said. “It can skip a few generations at times, but most of the time, it’s passed from parent to child.”

“My grandmother was a witch, you see,” Emma explained, “but my mother and I never had magic. And Dan—we think he had a third cousin a few generations back who was a famous wizard, but that’s it.”

“But Harry and Hermione are a wizard and a witch?” Tiffany asked.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“And we were just attacked by evil wizards?”

“Yes…” he said softly. “There’s sort of a civil war going on in our world.”

“A _war_?” Paul exclaimed. “How many of you are there?”

“Not many by mu—non-magical standards. About ten thousand in Britain.”

“Ten _thousand?!_ ”

“We know. It surprised us, too,” Hermione said. “We keep ourselves secret. Technically, we shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but considering our…” Her voice cracked. “Considering our house…was just blown up…we have more important things to worry about.”

“Oh my God, your _house_ ,” Tiffany gasped. “I’m so sorry, but…how? Why?”

“It’s…not as bad as it sounds,” Emma said. “We were prepared in case something like this happened. We moved everything that can’t be replaced out of the house months ago, or else we had it in our emergency kits.”

“Yeah, plus I inherited enough money from my birth parents to buy a new house once the war’s over,” Harry agreed, though he sounded just as shaken up as the others.

“And they were…wizards, too?” asked Paul.

“Uh huh. Er…my grandfather invented a top-selling hair care potion.”

Paul and Tiffany opened their mouths and then shut them again, looking pointedly at his and Hermione’s hair. It was pretty obvious that neither of them used any such “potion”—as if that were the most surreal part of this situation.

“Look, we should explain what happened,” Dora said seriously. “There are a gang of wizards called the Death Eaters who hate muggles—that’s what we call non-magic people—and hate witches and wizards whose parents are muggles, like Hermione—think they’re not ‘magic enough’.”

“They’re basically wizard Nazis,” Harry said. “And they’re trying to take over the country. Their leader calls himself Lord Voldemort, and he hates me personally because he was nearly killed in an incident when I was a baby involving my birth mother and a dark ritual gone horribly awry.”

Paul’s and Tiffany’s eyes grew wide as they made the connection. “So that’s when…” Tiffany started, but she trailed off. Harry nodded. “And the people who attacked us…”

He nodded again: “Death Eaters. And I’m sorry. They were after me, at least mostly.”

“Are our families safe?” she said.

“I…don’t see why not. They probably didn’t even know you were there. And not many people know who our muggle friends are.”

“I agree,” Dora said. “By the way, the black man was Kinani Ngeze, a powerful dark wizard from Rwanda who was mostly responsible for the war there—and the Ebola epidemic. He’s _apparently_ an ally of You-Know-Who, now.”

The pair gasped. The Ebola epidemic was still raging in Zaire, and cases were cropping up in travellers closer and closer to British shores. To them, that was almost worse news than the Grangers’ house being destroyed.

“Yeah,” she agreed.

Dan cleared his throat, and everyone turned to him. “Professor Dumbledore, there _are_ two other people who might be in danger…my parents. And I know we weren’t strictly supposed to, but we told them about magic before the kids came to Hogwarts. If the Death Eaters found _our_ house, they could find theirs, too.”

“A very good point, Mr. Granger,” Dumbledore agreed. “I will notify the Aurors. If there is no trouble tonight, given their specific situation, I think one of us should escort you to their house tomorrow morning to explain the situation.”

Suddenly, there was a chime, and Dumbledore waved his hand to open the door. Professor McGonagall hurried in. “Albus, I’ve got—” she said; then, she stopped and stared. “Mr. Potter? The Grangers? What’s happened?”

“I’m afraid the Grangers’ house was destroyed by Death Eaters not many minutes ago, Minerva,” Dumbledore told her. “These two muggle children were with them at the time.”

“The Grangers’ house, too?” McGonagall gasped.

 _“Too?”_ the Grangers all said.

“That’s why I came up here,” she said. “Albus, Augusta Longbottom is at the front door, and she is _not_ happy. She said her family had been attacked by Death Eaters at their manor. The wards held long enough for help to arrive and drive them off, but there were injuries in the fight. Neville, Frank, and Alice are at St. Mungo’s with half a dozen Aurors.”

Dan, Emma, and Hermione all turned to look at Harry as the colour drained out of his face. “Oh, no,” he said. “Luna.” He turned to Dumbledore. “Professor, someone has to check on Luna.”

“I’ll handle it, Harry,” Tonks said. “If they’re under attack, they’ll need Aurors.” She grabbed a handful of Floo Powder and called out, “Ministry of Magic, DMLE Office.” And in a whoosh of green flames, she was gone.

“Um…” Paul said. “So do you…travel through fireplaces, then?”

“Yes, among other methods,” Dan said.

“Please pardon me, Grangers, guests, but I think I will need to speak to Madam Longbottom forthwith,” Dumbledore said, “and likely tend to some other errands. Minerva, did she say how her family is doing?”

“Not in serious danger,” Minerva said, “at least if St. Mungo’s isn’t attacked, which is hardly a guarantee on a night like tonight.”

“Neither Voldemort nor his allies are foolish enough to mount a frontal assault on a hospital,” he replied. “Any attack would come in the form of a subtler assassination attempt. But I am sure Madam Bones knows this. Good evening.”

Dumbledore walked out, leaving McGonagall to face the Grangers. After a minute’s silence, she spoke up: “My condolences for the loss of your house. And these two—” She motioned to Paul and Tiffany. “—muggle friends of yours?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry answered. “This is Paul and Tiffany. They’ve been our friends since I started at Hermione’s primary school. They were with us tonight.”

“I see. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she told the pair. “I only wish it were under better circumstances. I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Professor of Transfiguration.”

“Transfiguration?” Paul said. “Is that some kind of magical religious class?”

“No. Transfiguration is what we call the art of changing one thing into another.”

“Like turning someone into a newt?”

McGonagall pressed her lips together. She probably got this with quite a few muggle families, and she did not seem amused. “Yes, although such is frowned upon,” she said. “Now, what is your current situation? Professor Dumbledore said you fled from the Grangers’ house. Do you need to return home or contact your parents?”

Paul and Tiffany blanched. “Oh my God,” Tiffany gasped. “Our parents! What happens if they come to get us and find the house destroyed?”

“We’ll have to call them right away,” Paul said. “Can we use your phone, Professor?”

“I’m afraid there are no phones in Hogwarts, nor easy access to any nearby.”

“You don’t have _phones?_ ” he gasped.

“Magic disrupts electricity,” Hermione said. “Phones don’t work here.”

“But how do you talk to people?”

“Letters, mostly. And we have…er, we have a few faster ways, but none of them could connect to your parents direct.”

“We have to get hold of them somehow.”

“I believe your best bet would be to take the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron in London and use a pay phone near there,” McGonagall said. “However, you will need an escort. With multiple attacks tonight, there is no telling what will even be open, much less safe.”

“Sooner would be better, Professor,” Dan spoke up. “We don’t want to terrify them any more than necessary. Hmm, the police should find that the house was empty, right? We could say we made a last-minute trip to the cinema. That would give us an excuse for a delay, too.”

Paul grumbled: “I guess it’s better than nothing, but _please_ , we need to call them soon, ma’am.”

“I’ll see what I can do. For now, I fear you will have to wait.”

* * *

Professor McGonagall stepped out as well, and it was half an hour before she returned. The Grangers and their friends were left alone in Dumbledore’s office, although the portraits were instructed to summon one of the other Heads of House if there were any problems. Paul and Tiffany were a little disturbed when they saw that the paintings could talk and carry on a conversation, but that was hardly the strangest thing to happen tonight.

The Grangers answered some of Paul’s and Tiffany’s questions about magic, but they weren’t as enthusiastic about asking now that they were preoccupied with getting home, and Harry hadn’t said much of anything since he found out that Luna might be in danger.

“We don’t know for sure that she was attacked,” Hermione tried to assure him. “The Lovegoods aren’t as prominent as the Longbottoms are.”

“Her dad’s in the _press_ , Hermione,” he snapped, “and everyone knows we’re together.”

She glanced at Paul and Tiffany and leaned closer and whispered, “But Neville’s also covered by the prophecy.”

“I don’t think that’s why they went after him.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help.”

“It won’t help anything until I know Luna’s safe,” Harry said.

Paul was eyeing the pair of them uncomfortably. It probably wasn’t helping his and Tiffany’s screwed-up relationship that they were left clinging to each other here, waiting for news. After watching a minute longer, Paul broke off and approached. “Harry…” he said. “You really like that girl, don’t you?”

Harry drew a deep breath and resisted the urge to shout at his friend. “Yeah, I do,” he answered.

“I’m sorry for what I said last summer,” he told him. “Tiffany already told me I was being an arse, but I really feel like one now. I hope she’s okay.”

“Thanks,” he said.

Harry didn’t say anything else, and the others stayed quiet for a while longer. When Professor McGonagall returned, however, she wasn’t alone. Rufus Scrimgeour was with her. The Grangers immediately stood to meet him.

“Auror Scrimgeour,” Dan said. “We weren’t expecting you so soon. What’s happening out there?”

“Quite a lot, I’m afraid, Mr. Granger.”

“Have you heard from the Lovegoods yet?” Harry cut in. “Auror Tonks went to check on them.”

Scrimgeour gave Harry a sharp look, but he answered, “I haven’t heard back from Ottery St. Catchpole yet, Lord Potter. I have more pressing concerns at the moment.”

“But—” Harry started, but Hermione elbowed him to keep quiet.

 “As of right now—”

“Wait, you’re a _Lord?_ ” Tiffany said.

Scrimgeour cleared his throat loudly to cut off her question, and she fell silent. “As of right now,” he said, “there have been four confirmed attacks: you, the Longbottoms, the Minister’s house, and Director Bones. So far, there haven’t been any confirmed fatalities, but the Director’s niece is in the hospital. The Minister and his wife got out by private Floo connection.”

“Do you know if Voldemort was at any of them?” said Harry. “Kinani Ngeze showed up at out house.”

Scrimgeour hissed at Voldemort’s name. “ _You-Know-Who_ ,” he stressed, “was not seen at any of the attacks. Nor was La Pantera. I have Aurors investigating what they were up to tonight.” He turned to Paul and Tiffany. “Now, are these the two muggles you mentioned, Professor McGonagall?”

“Yes, they are, Auror, and they will need to contact their families soon,” she said.

“Yes, we do,” Paul agreed. “Er, who are you?”

“Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Department.”

“Aurors are like magical police,” Hermione said.

“More like a Specialist Firearms Officer,” Dan corrected.

“The closest we have to a military,” Harry suggested.

“It’s complicated,” Hermione said.

Scrimgeour levelled a hard stare at the family. “I’m afraid there’s been another complication, Lord Potter,” he said. “The muggle police are already at the scene of the attack on your house, and they have ruled it a firebombing, not a gas explosion. Since they have been made aware of certain terrorist activities, it wasn’t a hard connection to make.”

Paul’s face paled: “So they think we got _firebombed?_ ”

“Technically, we did,” Harry said unhelpfully.

“Do our parents know yet?” ask Tiffany.

“I cannot say one way or the other,” Scrimgeour told them. “However, we will need, at minimum, the two of you and Mr. Granger to come to the police station in Crawley and make an acceptable statement to the muggle authorities. I will escort you personally. Depending on what we find, we may send you home, or take you into protective custody on a temporary basis.”

“You aren’t going to erase their memories are you?” Hermione asked.

 _“What?”_ Paul and Tiffany gasped.

“Miss Granger,” Scrimgeour said in a low voice. “Not in front of the muggles.”

“They could still be in danger. They need to know what’s happening.”

“We will consider our options when the current crisis has passed. Mr. Granger?” He motioned for him to follow, then turned back to Paul and Tiffany, but they took a fearful step back, Paul moving in front of Tiffany protectively. He sighed: “I will use no magic on you without your permission until we can fully discuss the situation. That’s the best offer I can give you. Now, I must insist you come along quickly.”

The two muggles looked nervously to Mr. Granger.

“Come along,” he said. “I’m in the know. I’ll make sure there’s no trouble. He’s right. We should hurry.”

The four of them left. It was about another half hour before a chime sounded, and Professor McGonagall stood from Dumbledore’s desk. She looked out the window and then grabbed a telescope from a nearby shelf to get a closer look. When she did, she sighed with relief. “Perhaps you should come down with me, Mr. Potter,” she said. “Professor Dumbledore and Auror Tonks have just returned with the Lovegoods.”

Harry leapt up and practically ran down the stairs, leaving his mother and sister and McGonagall to hurry after him. He was halfway down the stairs when he changed to cat form to run faster and took off like a missile.

“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall called before she changed as well and ran after him.

Harry ran down the four flights of stairs to the base of the clock tower at top speed and met the Lovegoods in the courtyard, changing back just in time to stand up and wrap Luna in his arms.

“Thank God you’re alright,” he sighed. “I was so worried.” It was only then that he noticed she was crying. “Oh, no. Did they come for you?”

Luna nodded sadly. “Our house should be salvageable,” she said. “But it won’t be safe for us to go back there.”

“Damn. I’m so sorry, Luna,” Harry said. “They were trying to get to me.”

She shook her head: “They were probably trying to get to _The Quibbler_ too, Harry.”

“But they came after me. They know we’re together—”

“And they went after others, Harry. It’s not _all_ about you, you know.”

Harry laughed a little and held his girlfriend close. As awkward as it could be, Luna always seemed to know what to say.

Professor McGonagall untransformed behind Harry and tried to catch her breath: “That was most unnecessary, Mr. Potter.”

A shaggy, brown otter ran up behind her and changed back into Hermione, who was still faster on four legs than two, but show was even more out of breath than the Professor. “I just couldn’t turn into a land animal, could I?” she muttered. “Luna’s house too, then?”

“Yes,” Professor Dumbledore spoke up. “I’m afraid it’s starting again.”

“What’s starting, Professor?”

“In the last war, it became all but impossible for members of the Order to stay in their homes,” he said. “The average with or wizard on the street was safe enough if they kept their heads down and their parentage was acceptable, but anyone who spoke up was targeted and forced into hiding in short order.”

Harry shivered. It certainly looked like things were going that way, and if they could get him at home, they could get almost anyone. “What happened with you, Professor?” he asked. “How are the Longbottoms? What about our other friends.”

“Recovering well enough, as are the Boneses, Harry. I contacted Sirius and Remus, and they are safely ensconced at Grimmauld Place. They will be ready to move at a moment’s notice, but I advised them to shelter there for the night. I met Auror Tonks at the Ministry, where she was processing Xenophilius and Luna, and once I was informed that Auror Scrimgeour had everything else in hand, I decided to return with them.”

“Right. He was here. Our house has been ruled a firebombing, apparently. Dad and our friends went to clear things up with the police.”

“A firebombing?” Luna said.

Harry looked back at her: “Yeah…our house was completely destroyed. We saved everything irreplaceable, but…”

Luna hugged him tight. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” she said softly. “Do you know where’ll you go?”

“No, we don’t know much of anything yet.”

Emma finally stumbled out the doors and joined the group. “Harry, Hermione, you can’t go running off on me like that,” she said when she caught her breath. “Luna, Mr. Lovegood, are you alright.”

“We made it out,” Xenophilius answered wearily.

 “That’s good to hear. It was close for us,” she said. “That African wizard, what’s-his-name showed up.”

“Ngeze,” Harry said. “Was Voldemort at your house, Luna? Or Pantera? Ngeze showed up at ours.”

“Oh! No, neither of them were there. That must have been terrifying.”

“Uh huh. They pulled out all the stops for Harry,” Dora said. “If You-Know-Who didn’t want Harry alive, I don’t know if we would have made it out.”

Harry nodded: “Yeah. We had to run fast when he started hitting the Wards. Actually, I’m surprised a Dark Lord like Ngeze couldn’t take down the Floo, too.”

“I believe that was because I myself set up the private connection,” Dumbledore said. “Granted, it is very hard to disrupt a Floo connection from the outside. Even I do not know the full details of how it works, and I strongly suspect that critical details are held under a Fidelius Charm. However, if it had been an ordinary connection set up by the Ministry, Ngeze may well have had a counter for it.”

“I see. And our dad?” Hermione spoke up.

“I will stay in contact with the Ministry to ensure that nothing goes awry with Rufus’s assignment. For now, I think, it would be best if you get some rest. With family members here, I think we can open up some private quarters…”

* * *

It was a restless night for everyone involved, at best filled with fitful dreams. It was full daylight the next morning by the time Dan, Paul, and Tiffany trudged up the path leading to the castle. Harry and Hermione were surprised to see their friends return, and rapidly grew worried when they saw Paul with his arms wrapped protectively around Tiffany, who was crying into his shoulder. Their father looked shell-shocked and stared at the ground.

“Oh my God, what happened?” Harry said when he saw them. “Your families…?”

Tiffany squeaked and clung tighter to Paul, but he shook his head no, and Dan did the same. That only made them more worried.

“Dan, who died?” Emma gasped. “Your…your parents?”

“No,” he croaked. “No, they’re in protective custody. So are their families.” He inclined his head towards the two kids. “They…they saw what happened…”

“To the house?” Hermione said in confusion.

“No. Not the house,” he said. “Hermione, Harry, I’m sorry…It was your karate teacher.”

His children gasped. Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth. “Sensei John?” she squeaked.

“Yes. It was…it was bad.”

“It w-was…h-h-horrible,” Tiffany squeaked.

“But… _how? Why?_ ” Harry said.

“I’m…I’m not sure you should know.”

Harry’s breath caught. Was it that bad? “Dad, we need to know. _They_ already saw it. This war isn’t going away. We need to know what we’re up against.”

Dan sighed. “I…I just…it was something you should never have to see.”

“Harry’s right, Dad. We need to know,” Hermione agreed.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Mr. Granger, as much as it pains me to say it, I’m afraid your children are right. While we all wish we could shield our the next generation from this war, the war is upon us. I think you should explain so that we can understand these events.”

Dan swallowed hard, and he slowly nodded his head. “Okay…okay, I’ll try. John, was…his head…” Hermione gasped again, and Paul covered Tiffany’s ears. “His head was _mounted_ in the middle of a traffic circle for everyone to see,” he said. His breath came out in shaky gasps. This had to have been worst sight he’d ever personally seen. “It had a bar driven through it sideways and clamped onto a lamppost…His body was…just thrown in the middle of the street like rubbish. His heart had been cut out of his chest, his body disembowelled, and…they’re still examining it, but the police say it looks like it was half-eaten by dogs before they dumped it there.”

“My G-God…” Emma breathed, tears welling in her eyes, and Dan took her and held her. Hermione started crying openly and clung to Harry. Luna stood by, a frightened look on her face, and Harry extended a shaking hand to pull her closer. He tried to be strong for both of the girls, but he felt the bile rising in his own throat.  It was almost too horrible to picture, and yet, that very thought made him see it in his mind’s eye: a friend and mentor tortured and murdered in the most gruesome way possible, and all to get to _him_.

“That’s…that’s _sick!_ ” Dora spat. “I thought I’d seen some awful stuff in my line of work, but _that?_ ”

Dumbledore took a deep breath and surveyed the room, his face very grave. “I recognise the pattern,” he said. “It was an Aztec sacrificial rite—the kind that was once done regularly by the Aztec priests, but is now the purview of the darkest of witches and wizards like Pantera.”

“But _why?_ ” Harry shouted. “What horrible ritual could call for that?”

“There are a great number of such rituals, I’m afraid, Harry. Many of them relating to the weather, but that is only one possibility. Knowing Pantera, she may well have invented a new one whose purpose is unknown…If it’s any consolation…the disembowelment and mutilation most likely occurred after his death. If she followed the Aztec rite, she would have cut out his heart first, before the rest of it.”

That wasn’t much consolation, not with the implications it left. “They did that to get to _me_ ,” he said. “It’s always because of me.”

“This was not your fault, Harry,” Dumbledore insisted. “I admit they most likely targeted your teacher because of his connection to you, but La Pantera performed this ritual for a _reason_ —a reason we must ascertain if we can. If it had not been him, it would have been some other unsuspecting muggle. As it is, those who are closest to you in both worlds are now protected. You cannot save everyone, Harry, but we are doing our best to ensure such a serious blow does not happen again.”

Harry tried to collect himself. His parents and grandparents, his closest friends in the muggle world, and their families. It would be too much to continue on to people who were less connected to him than that in the muggle world. He hated to admit it, but it was true. That only left…He looked up at Dumbledore. “Aunt Petunia and Dudley?” he asked. He couldn’t care less about Uncle Vernon.

“I have already taken steps.”

“Good,” he said, barely loud enough to hear.

“Mr. Granger,” Dumbledore addressed Dan. “If I may ask, did the police determine how the…body came to be where it was found, or when? It could be important to understanding the ritual that La Pantera performed.”

“They…they don’t know exactly,” he said. “They estimated the time of death around midnight, and they say the body must have been placed sometime between four and five in the morning, when no one would be out. A lorry driver spotted it and called the police at first light.”

“I see. I will have to investigate this. In the meantime, I think the rest of you should stay here until we are sure that things are safe.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t about to argue with that.

* * *

Lord Voldemort watched the sunrise as he played with balls of fire wandlessly in his hands. He was in a good mood this morning. Even though his Death Eaters hadn’t killed any of their targets last night, it was a small matter. That had not been his main objective. The message had been sent. More importantly, his personal message to Potter had been sent in excellently public fashion—Potter’s champion-teacher, a mere muggle, but no doubt dear to him, and no doubt someone he had thought safe—sacrificed to fuel the ritual that repaired his imperfectly fractured soul. And most importantly of all, it had worked; he was in top fighting form again. He felt better than he had since he’d resurrected—stronger, healthier. A weight on his shoulders he hadn’t known was there had lifted. It didn’t matter that his enemies still lived. He would pick them off at his leisure.

“A complete success, naturally,” La Pantera told him, looking very smug. “Your soul is patched up and stable. I can certify you to use your full repertoire of dark magic. Just don’t go splitting your soul again. This isn’t likely to work a second time.”

“I assure you I will refrain form such risky endeavours, Lady Pantera,” Voldemort replied. “Your payment is here. You are free to return home, although I may consider calling on your services again.”

“A pleasure doing business with you,” she said. “Hell, if you’re going to do that, I might put in the effort to arrange a faster mode of transport from there to here. Besides, I might want to look in from time to time. This war of yours could be entertaining to watch.”

He suddenly remembered how infuriating this woman could be. He turned to face her, his eyes flashing with fire. “Perhaps I was not clear, Lady Pantera,” he said. “I may have interest in retaining your services, but I do not _require_ them. Be gone from my presence before I change my mind that it is worth keeping you alive.”

“Ha! As if you could take me,” La Pantera sneered.

In a blink, Voldemort drew his wand and snapped off an Entrail-Expelling Curse at the dark lady while throwing a wandless fireball with his free hand, but she parried both with her magical dagger. The Death Eaters scattered as they both started blasting lethal curses all over the stone circle in which the ritual had been performed—all but one.

“My Lord!” Bellatrix shouted.

Both of the dark mages stopped, surprised that an underling would dare interpose herself in this duel.

“Yes, Bellatrix?” Voldemort said warningly, sparing her only a sidelong glance.

Bellatrix hesitated, but she spoke, “If I may, my Lord, might I suggest that this is not the ideal time to open a second rivalry—not when we are planning our major offensives against Dumbledore and Potter.”

Voldemort inclined his chin slightly, not taking his eyes off of La Pantera. “Yes, it is unwise to fight a war on two fronts if one can help it,” he said, remembering the wars of his own youth. “A _detente_ , then, Lady Pantera?”

“I can live with that,” she said, slowly lowering her dagger, still smiling.

“Very well. Your counsel is of course valued, Bellatrix.” He turned to his faithful servant. “And your assistance with the ritual was much appreciated.”

“I live to serve you, my Lord,” she replied. “And I must admit, that ritual was…” She glanced over at La Pantera with a flicker of something approaching awe. “… _inspired_.”

Voldemort frowned. Yes, someday, when his position was more secure, he would wipe that smug grin off of La Pantera’s face.


	12. The Dark Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Hello, boys! I’m baaa-aaack! (And so’s JK Rowing. Or something.)
> 
> It’s back! Now that I’ve finished Lady Archimedes, I can put a more serious effort into my other stories. A few weeks ago, I spent a whole day hammering out the plot of Animagus at War, something I haven’t really done properly since I was outlining The Accidental Animagus at the beginning—and I’d never done it truly chapter-by-chapter at all before. I now have a full outline for a total of 57 chapters plus an epilogue for this story, although that is subject to change.
> 
> I don’t know for sure that this will be my next priority, especially as I struggled quite a bit with this chapter. Right now, I’m trying to write a new chapter for all four of my ongoing stories to decide what direction to go. I have reasons for all of them, but I am definitely taking the continued reader interest in this story into consideration.
> 
> Also, if you haven’t been following my profile page, I have two new stories up there. One is Annals of Arithmancy, the sequel to Lady Archimedes, and for the other, I decided to finally put up one of those plot bunny anthologies that seem to be so popular. If you’re interested in that, check out Scribble Pad.
> 
> I think I wrote myself into a corner by saying the Death Eaters got through the Longbottoms’ wards, so I went back and changed that in the previous chapter.

As there were still students in the castle for winter holidays, including some key Slytherins, Dumbledore strongly advised the Grangers and their companions to stay in the guest quarters for the day. There was still a chance that the Death Eaters did not know of Paul’s and Tiffany’s connection to Harry, or at least that they had been with them last night, and it would be good to keep it that way. Once the Order arranged for safehouses, they could return to their families. They wouldn’t be afforded constant guard. There weren’t enough resources to protect everyone like that, but well-hidden and well-supplied, they would be able to wait out the war if need be.

They didn’t talk much that morning, too shaken by the events of the night before. They mostly waited as the preparations were made. Hermione was hiding behind a book to deal with the stress. Paul and Tiffany alternated between sitting on the sofa and occasionally whispering to each other, and trying to make sense of the magical guest quarters. Tonks went back to work. Harry had finally fallen asleep from exhaustion after breakfast, not having really slept at all last night. Luna fell asleep beside him with her head on her shoulder, but somewhere along the line, she had wound up sitting sideways on his lap. It was odd, but their parents had to admit they looked very cute like that.

Things started moving again around noon when Auror Scrimgeour came back with Dumbledore. Scrimgeour was now solidly emplaced as the Acting Head of Magical Law Enforcement while Madam Bones was recovering, so he had a lot more leeway to handle things.

“Psst. Harry,” Hermione hissed when he came in. Harry woke up and got his bearings. He shook Luna’s arm lightly, but she only mumbled sleepily. He let it go and turned his attention to Scrimgeour. “Yes, Auror Scrimgeour?” he asked.

“I’m hear to handle all of your placements, Lord Potter,” Scrimgeour said. “Mr. Talbot, Miss Morley, I’ve discussed the matter with the Minister for Magic, and we have agreed that because of the specific threats to your lives, you have been given special dispensation to be ‘in the know’ about magic.”

“Is that temporary or permanent, Auror Scrimgeour?” Hermione said shrewdly before they could answer.

“Permanent, Miss Granger,” he assured her. “Once a dispensation is granted, it is only revoked if the muggle in question becomes a threat to the Statute of Secrecy.”

Paul and Tiffany looked at each other nervously. That sounded uncomfortably like a secret government conspiracy to them, but they didn’t have much other choice. “Um…if that’s the rule, we can follow it, sir,” Paul said.

“Good,” Scrimgeour replied gruffly. “Once everything is settled, we’ll escort you to join your families in protective custody unless there’s a pressing reason not to. That will probably be tomorrow. Mr. Granger, we’ve granted the same dispensation to your parents. Even though it’s not _technically_ allowed,” he emphasised with a sharp look, “we end up doing it often enough for grandparents. They are being offered the same protective custody.”

“Thank you, Auror Scrimgeour,” Dan replied.

“Now, for yourselves, since you are most closely involved with our world, your situation is rather different. Do you have a place you can stay?”

“Er…yes. I’m sure we can stay with Sirius until things are settled,” he said. “I’m not sure about Mr. Lovegood, though.”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Lovegood said shakily. “Wherever we go, I’d like to be able to set up a printing press again, but I don’t know if it would be safe.”

“You shouldn’t let them intimidate you, Dad.”

Hermione did a double take. That was Luna’s voice. Had she even moved?

“We can’t let the Death Eaters intimidate us,” she said. “Otherwise, they win. Besides, if we don’t keep putting out the real news, who will?”

Half the room was staring at her. Luna looked like she might still be asleep except for the fact that she was talking, sitting completely limp on Harry’s lap. Harry chuckled softly and nudged her to sit beside him like she had before, putting his arm around her shoulders. He wasn’t sure himself how she’d got there. “She has a point, Mr. Lovegood,” he said. “Professor, is there someplace we could put them that would be safe for that?”

Dumbledore gave a quick glance at Scrimgeour that told them not to say too much in front of him, but he answered, “I believe I have a few ideas, Harry. I will look into it.”

“Hmph. Well, I suppose that’s good enough for now,” Scrimgeour said. “We’re investigating everything of course, but you understand there’s only so much we can do. Good luck, Lord Potter, Chief Warlock. Do try to stay safe.”

Scrimgeour look his leave, and Dumbledore soon left them alone. Now that everyone was alert, though, Paul and Tiffany finally got to ask the questions they’d been mulling over. “So…you’re a _Lord?_ ” Paul demanded of Harry.

“Erm…yes, but not like you think,” Harry said. “In the wizarding world, ‘Lord’ is a title for what amounts to a town councillor…which is hereditary—but it’s not recognised by the Crown or anything like that.”

“You’re a councillor?” he said. “And you inherited it? For what town?”

“All of Britain. There’s only ten thousand of us, remember? And my Cousin Andromeda is the councillor, not me—Dora’s mother. She’s the proxy for the seat my family holds.”

Paul sniggered: “You trust a woman who named her daughter Nymphadora?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Andromeda’s smart, Paul,” he said. “And Nymphadora isn’t the worst name in her family. It’s not even that weird for a witch. Besides,” he forced a grin. “What kind of a name is Hermione?”

Paul blushed slightly at the reminder of their first meeting. Hermione reached across from where she was sitting and slapped Harry in the back of the head.

Tiffany took over: “So Dora really is your cousin? She’s not a magical spy or something?”

“No, she’s really my cousin, but she’s also an Auror—sort of like police, like we said. Actually second cousin, once removed, but I don’t have any closer magical family, so we’re pretty close.”

“And this…war?” she said nervously. “I still don’t think I understand.”

And so, Harry opened up and, with the help of his family, began telling his friends the whole sad tale. He glossed over the how and why of the magical world keeping itself secret, he but explained the longstanding prejudice against muggles and muggle-borns, the rise of an evil wizard in the seventies who drew witches and wizards to that cause despite being half-blood himself, and a vague explanation of Voldemort coming after his family and his birth mother defeating him. (He _may_ have made Lily Potter out to be more of a conventional badass than just sacrificing herself for him?)

“Voldemort was, er, badly injured,” Hermione said. “He was so badly hurt that he had to flee the country. Most people thought he was dead, and his power base collapsed. But four years ago, he came back…Actually, for what happened after we started at Hogwarts, you can read Harry’s books.”

Harry groaned.

“Well, it was _your_ idea to write them, Harry.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t expecting our best friends to learn about all the messes that go on here from them.”

“Wait, wait, you wrote _books?_ ” Paul said.

“Yes, with Remus’s help—my honorary uncle. I wrote books about all the crazy stuff that’s happened to us since we started here so I wouldn’t have to keep explaining what’s true and what isn’t to everybody. I’m already famous, so they’re bestsellers—by magical standards, that is.”

Paul shook his head. “What kind of crazy stuff—? Wait, you said all your crazy stories were true, didn’t you? All that stuff happening in a _school?_ Like, a real school where you go to classes and stuff?”

“It’s been a rough few years,” Harry said defensively. “And…um, there’s one more thing you need to know for it to make sense at all.” At that, he jumped off of the sofa and turned into a cat as he dropped to the floor, meowing up at them. Paul and Tiffany practically fell out of their seats.

“Bloody hell!” they both exclaimed.

Harry jumped back onto the sofa and turned back to human form. They didn’t seem to know what to do besides stare at him for a minute. They were equally shocked when no one else in the room paid it any mind. “You just turned into a cat,” Tiffany finally said.

“Yep.” Harry nodded.

“Can _you_ do that?” She pointed at Hermione, but then gestured vaguely at everyone in the room, including Dan and Emma.

“ _I_ can,” Hermione said. “Except I turn into an otter. The animal is sort of based on your personality.”

“It’s a rare skill, though,” Harry said. “And almost unheard of to learn it as a kid, like I did.”

“You learnt it when you started here?” Tiffany said. “When you were eleven?” But Harry chucked, and Hermione giggled softly. “What?”

“Tiffany, I learnt to do that when I was _five_ ,” Harry told her. “We’re still not sure how, but…I could already do that when we first met. That’s why I’ve always been so good at climbing.”

Tiffany’s and Paul’s eyes widened more and more as so many little clues about Harry’s behaviour over the years began to make sense to them. “You’ve always been able to do that?” Paul said, and Harry nodded. “Bloody hell! I always knew there was something off about you, mate—”

“Oi!”

“—but that takes the cake. Hey! That’s why you like barbecue so much, isn’t it!”

Yes, Harry confirmed, it was. Now that they were onto more pleasant topics, Paul and Tiffany had a lot more questions about magic, Hogwarts, and the magical world in general. Hermione and Harry told them all about Hogwarts and their classes. They were naturally fascinated by all the things magic could do. Harry told them some more of his magical family’s history, and they sketched a rough outline of the history of the magical world, although Hermione lamented that the most popular history books in the magical world had turned out to be so spotty, since it otherwise would have been easier to refer them to those.

“Don’t you have textbooks, though?” Tiffany asked.

“Yes, but they’re not very good,” Hermione said. “Or that’s not entirely fair; we know the author of our textbook, and she’s pretty good after 1700, but before that, there’s nothing really reliable.”

“Really?” asked Paul, cocking an eyebrow. “You don’t have any big definitive books like Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_ …or something? I don’t know exactly how it works, but shouldn’t there be something like that?”

“But the magical world is tiny,” Hermione said. “That’s was one of the hardest things for us to understand. It’s like a small town—the politics, the culture, the infrastructure—everything. We don’t have enough people to produce timeless works of scholarship reliably. So even our best textbooks are only so-so.”

“But hey,” Harry cut in, “maybe when the war’s over, Moony can write a new one. He’s doing pretty good so far helping with my books. I bet he could pull off some writing of his own.”

“Hm, maybe,” Hermione agreed.

They talked well into the evening about other things of little consequence. Dumbledore showed up at supper time and told them he had no news, but he was reaching out to his contacts in Central America to try to figure out what La Pantera’s ritual was for. They were all tired, though, so they went to bed early after that. The next day, Paul and Tiffany would return to their families, which they were nervous about, but the Grangers assured them that Dumbledore would keep them safe.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy was beyond nervous when the Dark Lord called court at Riddle Manor. Five attacks had been sent out last night while the Dark Lord himself attended some a personal matter, and _none_ of their targets had been killed. This would have been one of the greatest failures in the last war—one that promised severe retribution on the whole group for such a setback—and he feared the consequences here.

The others felt it too. The tension in the throne room was palpable when the Death Eaters assembled. They huddled in the back of the room as the Dark Lord took his throne, each lowering their gaze so as not to catch his eye. As usual, Lady Pantera lounged irreverently by the window—the nerve of that woman! Of course, _she_ was completely at ease. Lord Ngeze, on the other hand, was the opposite. He stood stiffly at the opposite side of the room staring silently at them with his bare arms crossed, looking far more intimidating than Lucius’s own goons ever could.

“Come, come, my Death Eaters,” the Dark Lord hissed. Predictably, he would brook no reticence on their part. “Come closer. Don’t be shy.”

Lucius chanced a glance up at the Dark Lord. He looked about as cheerful as he ever did, though that was with a sadistic smirk. The Death Eaters began to shuffle forward, all of them trying not to wind up at the front without _looking_ like they were keeping their distance. (All except Bellatrix, that was, who had also been kept back last night for reasons unknown.) Not that any of that fooled him.

“I smell fear,” he said softly, and Lucius wondered not for the first time if he really _could_ smell their fear. “This room reeks of it. But why should you be fearful? Ah, but are are worried about last night’s raids, of course. Five parties were sent out; yet all five came back with their hands empty of their quarry. Quite the poor showing, is it not?”

The Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably where they stood. A few of them mumbled apologies, but Lucius remained stoically silent. Better to keep his back straight and not show weakness than to grovel at the Dark Lord’s feet. He’d learnt that much at least since his return to the Death Eaters’ fold. The punishment would be the same either way, but the Dark Lord would at least have more respect for him.

But the Dark Lord didn’t punish them at all. Instead, he spoke conversationally: “You should not become overwrought by last night. The truth is, I fully expected four of those five attacks to fail.”

 _What?_ Lucius’s head snapped up, as did the rest of them. Still, no one spoke up, but the shifting of feet and muttered curses took on entirely different tone. What was going on?

“The Minister, the Boneses, and the Longbottoms are too well protected for a small frontal attack to succeed,” the Dark Lord explained. “Did you believe I had calculated the forces needed to take them so poorly?” Wisely, no one took the bait for _that_ trap. “No, this was sending a message. Those wizards now know what I can do with just a few Death Eaters, even before I enter the battle myself. And it was a distraction, tying up the Ministry’s resources while I attended to a personal matter that they might have otherwise detected.”

Lady Pantera’s ritual, Lucius thought. He still didn’t know much about it, but he knew it involved a human sacrifice—Potter’s muggle teacher—and that was reason enough to be very afraid.

“Potter likewise is under Dumbledore’s personal protection, and he has _learnt_ from his parents’ downfall,” the Dark Lord continued. “Even with Lord Ngeze’s help, I thought it likely he would escape. While it would have been better to kill some of his family, it still sent a powerful message: we have taken his home and, more importantly, his sense of security. He knows I can reach him _anywhere_.” Many of the Death Eaters shivered, understanding that he had just backhandedly given _them_ the same message. “Lord Ngeze, your assistance was much appreciated, and you will assuredly be well-compensated. You certainly got Dumbledore’s attention last night.”

“Good,” the African dark lord rumbled in a deep voice. “As long as I have my rematch, we’re set, Voldemort.”

The Dark Lord smirked, but then turned more serious. He looked to one particular group of Death Eaters and said, “No, the only attack I expected to succeed last night was the one on the Lovegood residence. Killing Potter’s pitiful little girlfriend would have sent the strongest message of all, and yet it seems a madman and a little girl were too much for you.”

“Master!” One of the Death Eaters under his scrutiny cracked. “We didn’t know what hit us! Lovegood had erumpent horns! A swarm of enchanted paper like locusts! Things we’d never even heard of before—”

_“Crucio!”_

The other Death Eaters winced as screams filled the throne room. And _that_ , Lucius had learnt the hard way, was why you didn’t grovel.

“A few cheap tricks should not stop a Death Eater,” he said coldly, somehow making himself heard above the screams without raising his voice. “I expect a higher standard.” He released the curse, and the unfortunate lay gasping on the floor. “I will deal with the failures later, in _private_ ,” he said, and his followers shuddered. “Now, you are no doubt wondering, if last night was merely a message and a distraction, what are my true plans? Tonight, you have a first look at them…The new recruits will come forward,” he ordered.

Three of the black-robed figures in the room broke ranks and went before the Dark Lord’s throne. Having been counselled, they knelt before him, and he rose from his throne to meet them. “These three Death Eaters do not yet bear my Mark,” he said. “They are as yet students at Hogwarts, but they joined the rest of you last night as a test of their resolve—each of them at one of the hardened targets. They served competently to the standards I expect of them, and they followed my orders without question, even when I sent them on what seemed an impossible mission. I expect such loyalty from _all_ of my Death Eaters.” There was murmured agreement from the room. “Tonight, we welcome these three to our family.” This elicited the appropriate cheers.

Adrian Pucey, Graham Montague, and Cassius Warrington, Lucius thought. He wasn’t completely certain. It was possible the Dark Lord was even lying about them being students. But he (and many of the Death Eaters) knew the Slytherin class, and he would bet good money on them being those three boys.

“But I find myself in a dilemma,” the Dark Lord went on. He wasn’t done just yet. “In the last war, Dumbledore did not learn of the existence of the Dark Mark until it was too late to do anything about it. This time, he is on high alert. He will be allowed to search students for it, and I suspect even my spy in his ranks will not be able to deter him from it. Therefore, this _one_ time, because of the importance of your mission, you three will be given a _special_ Mark.”

Lucius gasped softly. Was the Dark Lord about to do what he thought he was about to do?

“The Dark Mark is forever,” he said, “but your Marks will be no mere tattoos. For you three, the ink will be able to sink deeper into your skin to hide itself and thus evade a search…This privilege will last until you finish your schooling, at which point you will no longer need to hide in the shadows.”

Lucius’s eyes widened behind his mask. That wasn’t what he was expecting, and from the whispers he heard around him, he knew a lot of people had reached the same conclusion he had. This spell would tie the Mark even closer to the boys’ magic, and if they crossed the Dark Lord, it could hurt them that much more. What must seem a boon to them was really a curse.

At that moment, he also noticed that Lady Pantera was no longer relaxed. She was sitting upright and very attentive, like a predator about to strike. Something about this spell interested her. But had she helped create it…or did she want to _learn_ about it?

But he was shaken from his thoughts as the Dark Lord began the ceremony. He stood before the recruits, looking from one to the next in the eyes and said, “Do you desire to receive my Mark and enter my service?”

Again, having been counselled (it wouldn’t do, otherwise), the boys answered in unison, “I do.”

“Do you renounce the muggles, and their ways of life?”

“I renounce them,” they said.

“Do you renounce those who would pollute our society with their ways?”

“I renounce them,” they repeated.

“Do you believe in the ultimate might of magic?”

“I do.”

In the last war, that question had been different. Back then, it was a question about the mingling of blood, but now that Potter had revealed the Dark Lord to be a half-blood (something that Lucius still struggled to digest), he had quietly dropped it. Certainly, the Dark Lord had long ago renounced his muggle heritage, and that magic was might was unassailable, so it was fair.

“And do you promise to follow and obey me as your Lord and Master?” the Dark Lord said.

“I do.”

“Present your arms.”

Each of the boys extended his bare left arm, and the Dark Lord touched his wand to each in turn, administering the Mark nonverbally as he spoke: “I Mark you with the sign of Lord Voldemort. Let it always remind you of whom you truly serve.” The boys hissed in pain as he Marked them, but they withstood it admirably.

When he was finished, the Dark Lord returned to his throne, looking even more darkly regal than before. “Rise,” he commanded, and the boys stood. “My newest Death Eaters, your position at Hogwarts is of utmost importance to my plans. As you know, the greatest obstacle to my power has always been Albus Dumbledore. Harry Potter is a personal matter I shall deal with in due time, but Dumbledore is the only one with the power to challenge me directly.” He pointedly didn’t mention the ICW task force. “And Dumbledore’s citadel is Hogwarts. From without it is too strong to break, but from _within_ …it is soft—vulnerable. A school filled with young children cannot withstand assaults from both within and without.

“Your mission at Hogwarts will be to recruit those students who are sympathetic to our cause to act when the time is right,” he said. “My Mark will be your token of authority. You will not restrict yourselves to the upper years of students when you do this, and you will not restrict yourselves to Slytherin House. Indeed, if there are any suitable candidates among the staff, you may approach them. But you will approach _only_ those whom you trust implicitly. In particular, you will _not_ approach Professor Snape about this mission. And you will cover your tracks with Memory Charms and any other way that seems necessary to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” they said.

“This is a mission of stealth and sabotage, not of strength. As you recruit my fifth column within Hogwarts, you will wait for my signal. When the time comes, you will undermine the defence of the school in any and all ways you can. With attacks from within and without, Hogwarts will fall swiftly. Do this for me, and you will be rewarded greatly.”

“Yes, Master,” they repeated.

Yes, this was _very_ interesting, Lucius thought. He didn’t know what was going to happen yet, but it was definitely going to be big.


	13. Divination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I foresee JK Rowling saying something that will annoy the fans. But she still owns Harry Potter.
> 
> A/N: A big thanks to MooNOrchiD for creating new cover art for this story on FFN. You can see more of their work on DeviantArt under the name Candidpop.
> 
> Credit to HowlnMadHowie for pointing out the risk to Voldemort of the Seers discovering his plans.
> 
> By the way, in this story, Nagini is a ritually enhanced regular snake, not a Maledictus.
> 
> I’m sorry this took so long. I haven’t been feeling well the past few weeks, which slowed me down, and I realised as I was writing that I really didn’t have a plan for this chapter, and it was a real struggle to finish. It wound up not being much more than a survey of classes in the spring term. It brought up a lot of stuff that might become significant sub-plots…if I wanted the story to be about twice as long as it is. Fifth Year is just too big to do right, something JK Rowling herself found out. The next chapter should be better.

The spring term began on a bitterly cold January morning. Frost covered the windows, bathing the interior of Hogwarts in a harsh, white light, and the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling mirrored it with a sky filled with featureless white clouds. The students were subdued when they came down to breakfast. The attacks on Boxing Day, despite the lack of deaths, had shaken many people’s sense of safety, not just Harry’s.

Neville had looked tired last night, Harry thought, and he still looked tired as they sat down to eat. Hermione sat close to him to try to support him. Luna managed to look a bit more cheerful, though. Harry sought her out and hugged her before sitting with his housemates.

“How are you doing, Neville?” he asked.

“Okay, I guess,” he said. “We’re still kinda nervous at home because the Death Eaters would attack us head-on like that, but Gran upped the security, so she and my parents are probably okay for now.”

“That’s better than how Susan’s doing,” Lavender spoke up. “I heard a rumour her aunt’s living at the Ministry now, since she lives alone while Susan’s here.”

“I’m not sure how much I believe that, Lavender,” Harry said.

She shrugged. “How are you two doing?” she asked. “You lost your home, didn’t you? I can’t imagine what that was like.”

“We got out fine,” he told her. “Dumbledore made plans for it, and we didn’t lose anything irreplaceable.”

“It was scary, though,” Hermione said. “Kinani Ngeze was there to break through our wards.”

Lavender squeaked in horror. Most people knew who Ngeze was from the reports of the East African War, and he was pretty scary in his own right. For the most part, people around the Great Hall spoke in hushed tones about the attacks, until the mail arrived, and then the conversation grew louder amid shouts of dismay.

“Bloody hell!” Seamus Finnegan exclaimed. “Oh, this is bad. This is really bad.”

“What?” Harry said.

“Look at the paper, mate!” he said, and sure enough, the _Daily Prophet_ _’s_ headline blared:

 

_EBOLA CONFIRMED IN BRITISH ISLES!_

 

“Oh, Merlin’s pants,” Harry muttered.

“Oh dear,” Hermione said. “Now, don’t panic.”

“Don’t panic?” Seamus said. “Do you know how many wizards have died in Zaire of Ebola?”

“Not wizards specifically, no,” she admitted. The latest muggle papers from the last few days reported the number of deaths from the Ebola epidemic in Zaire at upwards of ten thousand. It was finally slowing down there, but people were growing more and more nervous about the number of cases that had been cropping up on the continent. Honestly, this had probably been just a matter of time. “But they’ve got a pretty good handle on how to stop its spread now, I think.”

“Yeah, it won’t be like it was in Zaire here,” Harry agreed. “Just read the article.”

The article, thankfully was _not_ one of their sensationalised offerings. Even the _Daily Prophet_ had more sense than that:

 

_St. Mungo_ _’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries has reported the first case of Ebola hemorrhagic fever in the British magical community. Seth Kay, a muggle doctor (a type of Healer) returned from a humanitarian mission in Zaire just before Christmas and was diagnosed with Ebola hemorrhagic fever after his return. Unbeknownst to him, his romantic partner in England was also a witch, Theia Crockford of London. After her lover was hospitalised, Crockford was admitted to St. Mungo’s two nights ago and was eventually diagnosed with Ebola. Healers insist that no other members of the magical community are at risk._

_Ebola has ravaged the magical communities of Zaire, Rwanda, Burundi, and Uganda in the eighteen months since the end of the East African War in addition to causing thousands of muggle deaths. It has become feared as a devastating magical disease with over half of those infected dying in some regions. The epidemic has been slowing in recent months. However, because Ebola is one of the few serious diseases that can infect muggles and wizards equally, the Ministry has been working with the muggle Department of Health and Social Care to monitor for and contain any cases in the British Isles._

_The two governments are working together and have reportedly been retracing Kay_ _’s and Crockford’s steps to ensure that no one else was exposed. Minister Fudge has stated, “There is no evidence that any other wizards came in contact with the muggle patient after he returned from Zaire. But the risk remains from other returning travellers and Healers, and I ask all the witches and wizards of Britain to be watchful of any potential exposure.”_

_While dangerous, Healers insist that the risk from Ebola is much less than the public have been led to believe. In response to the recent case, St. Mungo_ _’s released an official statement:“We wish to reassure the public that Ebola hemorrhagic fever is not transmitted through casual contact or exposed surfaces. It is transmitted only through direct contact with bodily fluids. With proper hygiene, only caregivers and family members are at significant risk of transmission, which can be mitigated with further decontamination measures. Nonetheless, Ebola symptoms can appear as late as three weeks after infection, so we urge people who are at risk to remain vigilant for that long after any possible exposure.”_

 

“That won’t help if it gets into the school,” Seamus insisted.

“It’s not likely to get into the school,” Harry said. “They’re going to be especially careful about that.”

“We just came back from holidays, though. And there’s Hogsmeade visits.”

“I’m sure Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey will have everything in hand,” Hermione insisted. “Dumbledore was in East Africa, after all. He knows how to deal with this.”

“We’ve been following how things are going in the muggle world,” Harry added. “They’re a lot better about stopping infection here, and more people are surviving where there are better healing resources.”

The rest of the student body weren’t so confident. Despite Dumbledore’s reassurances, many of them kept to themselves over the next few days, avoiding any close contact. That only really lasted about a week, though. As the days went by with no more news, and with Theia Crockford reportedly recovering, people calmed down. Even so, on top of everything else, it made everyone that much more anxious as the term started.

* * *

The attacks over the holidays did have the effect of kicking everyone into high gear when it came to self-defence. From Grayson’s Defence classes to Remus’s Duelling Club, and even those classes that weren’t so directly connected to the war like Auror- and Healer-prep, people were studying harder than ever. The last war had lasted eleven years, and while everyone prayed this one would end swiftly, even the first-years were painfully aware that they might already be graduated and fighting themselves before it was over. Thus, as much as the war had been looming over the school in autumn, it was seeping into all parts of life now.

“I think we all need a pick-me-up after the way things were during the holidays,” Remus said during the first Duelling Club meeting of the year, “so I thought we’d do something different. Tonight, I think you should _all_ try to learn the Patronus Charm.”

There was excited chatter among the Duelling Club. Many of the older students knew it already, but many others were excited by the opportunity to learn. Some, especially the younger students, were dismayed that it was one of the hardest spells to learn and said so. (No one, by this point, didn’t know what a Patronus was.)

“Yes, yes, the Patronus Charm is a very difficult spell,” Remus continued. “It’s entirely possible that many of you won’t be able to pull it off. That’s why you aren’t doing it in class. I don’t want to frustrate any of you with this. That isn’t the point of the exercise. I want to give you all practice with it, even if you can’t cast it yet, because any practice will help you along later…On the other hand, I know many of you fifth-year and up have already been trying it in class, so this will be good extra practice.

“The Patronus Charm is as technically demanding as most N.E.W.T. charms, but even young children can often learn technically demanding magic with talent and practice.” He smiled at Harry as he said that. “The truly difficult part is that the Patronus Charm also requires great magical strength, focus, and force of will in the face of one of the most horrific creatures on Earth, and this is why so few wizards ever go to the lengths to master it. Yet I firmly believe most people can learn it if they try.”

Remus explained how the Patronus Charm worked much as Professor Grayson had done for Harry’s and Hermione’s class, and people started casting. Cho Chang managed it pretty quickly, producing a majestic swan that soared around the Great Hall. Seamus Finnegan managed to produce a vague, hairy-looking shape after a while. Most of the people who couldn’t already cast a Patronus produced wisps of silvery mist, which was better than nothing, but still barely a start.

Remus went around the club, giving people pointers, and after a little while, he asked Harry to help out too. Harry wasn’t so sure he was the best person for that precisely because it had come so naturally to him, but he tried anyway. Hermione did too, but she was mostly trying to help her roommates.

Harry particularly watched Luna as she worked on the charm. She struggled with it, like most of the club, but she successfully produced a non-corporeal Patronus and slowly focused it into shape.

Harry went over and stood beside her. “That’s a really good start, Luna,” he encouraged her. “I’m sure you’ll have it down in no time.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she said. She tried it again, and it looked like she almost had it. Harry was strongly considering snogging her in front of the club to try to help her with the positive emotions bit, but he held back, as it would be rather embarrassing if it didn’t work.

He needn’t have worried, though. Just a couple more tries, and Luna’s Patronus snapped into a clear animal shape, which began frolicking around Hall.

“Look, Harry! It’s a cat just like yours,” Luna said happily.

“Ooh!” squealed Lavender Brown. “I heard that’s how you know it’s true love.”

Seamus wolf-whistled, and everyone laughed. Remus halfheartedly tried to quiet them down, but even he winked at Harry.

Harry, however, took one look at Luna’s Patronus and laughed when he recognised it. “I don’t if that’s it’s just because we’re dating,” he said. “That’s not just any cat, Luna. That’s a Ragdoll. I don’t know if you know it. I don’t think they have many in the magical world.” Even pureblood wizards had the sense not to inbreed their cats as badly as they were, he thought. “They’re bred to be extra friendly and affectionate, and they tend to go limp when you pick them up.”

Luna giggled and leaned against Harry as her Patronus continued to run around them. That _was_ the perfect Patronus for Luna—well, he’d half expected something offbeat like a platypus, but Ragdoll just seemed to fit. He wondered idly if Lavender might be on to something, but mostly, he was happy that his girlfriend would be able to defend herself from another attack. That was the most important thing right now.

* * *

Remus’s first History class of the term was rather more serious: “After last term, we’re largely done with discussing the recent history of the magical world, although I understand Professor Grayson will be revisiting some of it. This term, we will be studying other aspects of magical civics: government, politics, international relations, and finance.”

Most of which didn’t sound very interesting to most of the class, especially after the units they’d done on Grindelwald’s War and the first war against Voldemort in the previous term. However, many of them twigged on the word “politics.” In fact, Draco Malfoy spoke up immediately: “Do you really think we can have productive discussions about politics in this class, Professor?”

“Do I expect you to debate the major political issues of our day, Mr. Malfoy? No, I don’t. That isn’t what this unit is about. Politics, of course, is a highly contentious subject. Muggle-raised students will know that it’s contentious enough in the muggle world that it is advised to avoid discussing it entirely in polite company. It’s even more so in the magical world, where many of your classmates know some of the major players personally—”

“Like Harry!” someone called.

Once the chatter subsided, Remus added, “Yes, the perils of having a hereditary Wizengamot. While underage heads of houses normally act through a proxy, Mr. Potter has indeed taken an active role in several major political debates over the past four years. But that is not what we are here to discuss. The _study_ of politics, as it relates to this class, is not about the issues, but about understanding how politics works. An informed witch or wizard ought to know how to navigate the political environment we find ourselves in and how to interpret the latest proceedings of the Ministry that appear in the papers.

“That all may sound terribly dull now, but consider: magical Britain is small enough that anyone can take an active hand in some aspect of the Ministry or the Wizengamot that is important to them. And while some wizards at the top may feel differently, this is a central principle to our society, and a well-rounded education will teach you enough to understand how it works.”

Malfoy scowled, albeit faintly. It was an easy bet that he didn’t feel the same way about how the Ministry _ought_ to operate.

“It’s not as simple as a summary of the Ministry’s operations would have you believe,” he went on. “In fact, can someone who does not have family on the Wizengamot explain how laws are passed there?”

To some surprise, Lavender Brown took that one up. “It’s—well, everyone says it’s pretty simply, don’t they, Professor?” she said. “Any member of the Wizengamot can submit a bill. There has to be a second to take it up. Oh, and I guess there has to be a public reading at some point. But the Wizengamot debates the bill until they’re satisfied, and then they vote on it. Majority rules, unless it’s something special like amending the charter.”

Remus nodded: “Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Brown. That was a good explanation—and just what I was trying to illustrate.” Lavender made a face, not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not. “All of that is technically correct—and, with a few highly-publicised exceptions, it is not at all how laws are actually made.” Suddenly, everyone was alert, the Slytherins doubly so. Remus smiled. “One of the most important rules of politics is, ‘Never call a vote unless you know what the outcome will be.’ True, the debate in the Wizengamot Chamber is often a major component of legislating, but the writing of the language of bills, the vote trading to ensure they’ll pass, and so forth? That is done outside.

“And keep in mind that this need not be corruption. This is also the way to reach a compromise that all sides can support on behalf of one’s constituents. Except for a small number of issues that are so contentious it’s not clear how the vote will go, that is how most things get done in the Wizengamot.

“But that’s all for later. Let us begin by studying the structure of the Ministry to understand Miss Brown’s theoretical framework of governance, so that we can later see how actual practice fits into that framework…”

 _Interesting_ , Malfoy thought. Not what he was expecting from a unit on politics. The class had been a little biased, but not like he thought it would be. Lupin seemed to make a genuine effort to be fair. Father certainly wouldn’t like him teaching _everyone_ how to navigate the political waters, but for Draco himself, it would be very interesting and potentially productive to get an outside perspective on it.

* * *

Edward Grayson’s Defence class was probably the most anticipated of the new term after the Christmas Holidays. “We’ve been practising duelling in various conditions over recent months,” he began, “but I believe there is more to Defence Against the Dark Arts than staying alive in a fight. Of course, there is detecting traps and curses. That is more of a N.E.W.T. topic, but I’ll be giving you an overview as we go. There’s also evading pursuit and wilderness survival. Those sound like things that would more benefit a criminal, but remember, in war, you can’t always trust who is on your side.

“I want to focus on that in particular. We are in a war now, and my job is to make sure you have the tools you need to survive it. To do that, I’m going to take a different approach. I assigned Esterhazy’s _Memoirs of the Late War Against Grindelwald_ this year because he gives an unvarnished, day-by-day account of Grindelwald’s War and what ordinary witches and wizards had to go through in those times.

“I know this is your O.W.L. year, and I have to teach you the magic and skills that are on the exam standard. I assure you I will do that, but we can focus on that in the review period in May. For the first four months of this term, I want to take a holistic approach. We will be reading through Esterhazy’s _Memoirs_ and studying the skills and tactics he used during his time in the war, supplemented by the curriculum as well as my own experiences and some from my comrades in arms. So, take out your books; turn to Chapter One.”

Everyone got out their copies of Esterhazy. An air of excitement pervaded the room. This wasn’t exactly what they’d expected, but it could be very interesting—learning how to fight a real war from someone who had done it before. It just might keep them alive in the coming years.

Grindelwald’s War was considered to have started much earlier than the muggle World War II, and Esterhazy began with an account of Grindelwald’s infamous Paris Rally in 1927, where what should have been a simple political rally went very wrong. (It was also a break from his later practice, as he had recruited almost exclusively purebloods at the beginning, but that was secondary.) Grindelwald had been a notorious terrorist for years before that event, but this was the moment he put forth his manifesto and commissioned his followers to active operations. And the rest was history.

There were few survivors on the Allies’ side from the Paris Rally, and Esterhazy wasn’t a witness, but he had managed to procure a rare interview with both of the Scamander Brothers about the incident. It was a harrowing and tragic tale, and one that most scholars argued could have been avoided, something Professor Grayson wanted to explore. He quickly went over the events of the Paris Rally, asking a few questions to ensure the class had done their reading, and then he began the discussion: “What did the Aurors do wrong at the Rally?”

“Uh…the bloody _killed_ someone?” said Pansy Parkinson.

He gave her a stern look: “You can do better than that, Miss Parkinson.”

Pansy took a deep breath and thought for a moment. “They killed someone who wasn’t attacking them, Professor.”

“Closer,” he said. “The eyewitness accounts weren’t clear exactly what happened. That is a plausible interpretation, but not what I was looking for. What else?”

“Uh, they showed up?”

Everyone turned. That was a rare comment from Crabbe. Some people laughed, but Grayson cut them off: “Now, hold on. It sounds simplistic, but is Mr. Crabbe wrong…? Hold that thought. What _specific_ things did the Aurors do wrong at the Rally?”

Neville answered next: “They disobeyed orders, Professor?”

Grayson smiled. “ _Did_ they?”

He let the question hang, and everyone quickly went back and reread the interview. Malfoy parsed it the fastest. “They _didn_ _’t_ , Professor,” he said. “Not technically. Theseus Scamander was the senior Auror on site, and he said not to attack, but _his_ boss said to arrest them all.”

“You’re on the right track, Mr. Malfoy. Conflicting orders are one of the most dangerous things both in war and in Auror work. Which one is right? Is the always just the one from higher up?”

“Of course not!” Hermione exclaimed, not waiting to be called on. “Professor,” she added hastily. “I mean to say, not always. If an order is illegal or immoral, it’s not to be followed.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her. He probably didn’t share her philosophy, but in this particular case, he could see her argument. “I get it, Professor,” he said. “It wasn’t illegal to give a speech, was it? The Aurors didn’t have any grounds to arrest anyone there. Oh, besides Grindelwald, I suppose.”

“Correct, Mr. Malfoy,” Grayson said. “The only legal basis for the Aurors to act at the Rally was to arrest Grindelwald himself, which they were sadly far outclassed to do. They ignored Scamander’s legally correct order not to use force on the attendees and followed Travers’s incorrect order to arrest everyone. That was one mistake. But there was a second, even more fundamental mistake that the Aurors made that night.”

Harry saw where he was going and raised his hand.

“Mr. Potter?” he said knowingly.

“They cast to kill, Professor.”

Grayson nodded: “They cast to kill. From what I understand, it wasn’t until the very end of the last war that Aurors were authorised to use the Killing Curse, but at Paris, it was their opening move, and that proved to be their downfall. It wasn’t just that one, either. The eyewitness accounts make it clear that the Aurors went in there itching for a fight. It seems likely that Grindelwald was too, and when both sides _want_ a fight, it’s very hard to stop them, no matter how disastrous it will be.

“We haven’t talked about this principle in this class because it ought to be obvious, and anyway, this is Defence Against the Dark Arts, not Conflict Resolution, but perhaps Rule Zero of any manual of fighting ought to be, ‘Don’t go looking for a fight if you don’t need to. You might just find yourself in one you can’t win.’” He looked around at the class. Both Gryffindors and Slytherins alike looked chastised by that, at least some of them. Gryffindors were the most likely to go looking for the trouble, and it was an open secret that a lot of Slytherins had political agitators in their families, to put it diplomatically. There had always been a lot of tension under the surface.

“If you want to learn more on this subject,” Grayson continued, “There’s a recent book by Wilbert Slinkhard called _Defensive Magical Theory_. I didn’t assign it because it’s dangerously short-sighted to try to use it as a course text, but it’s an interesting read if you understand where he’s coming from. Mr. Slinkhard is a strict pacifist, you see, and his tome is all about non-violent resolution to magical conflict. And while I wouldn’t assign it to students, I _would_ assign that kind of book to Auror trainees. Aurors need to know when _not_ to curse at least as much as when to curse because exactly this kind of mistake can happen, if not in so spectacular a fashion.

“Now, to continue, after the Paris rally, Grindelwald’s followers went into open revolt against the British and French Ministries. Let’s talk about the Ministry response to this change in strategy…”

* * *

Old Coyote and Edward Grayson had been giving seminars all year, but Fan Tong didn’t get around to it until the spring term. Her Divination seminar wasn’t as well attended, but Harry and Hermione quietly slipped into the back to watch. While they had never put much stock in Professor Trelawney’s class, it had become much more important this year. Xihe, her phoenix, perched by her side, and Trelawney sat by her on the stage. Hermione’s roommates, Lavender and Parvati naturally sat in the front row.

“I regret that I was not able to hold a seminar sooner,” Madam Fan said in her creaky voice. “But my private tutelage of Professor Trelawney must needs come first. I would be neglecting my duties as a diviner if I did not give adequate instruction to one of our own.

“This seminar won’t be exactly like the others. There’s not much I could teach most of you that your Divination teacher couldn’t. Only those few who have the aptitude could go beyond the basic classes. What I want to do is to instead give you a better understanding of what diviners can do—how they can be a help, and the rudiments of how too protect yourselves from them, for we believe there _are_ diviners on the other side.”

There were nervous whispers around the audience, but she ignored them and continued, “Seers are most famous for their prophecies—which is only natural. Prophecies are at once the most visible and the least controlled aspect of divination. They are usually the most portentous as well, which is why Ministries of Magic the world over make a special effort to record them.

“What you may not know is how it benefits us Seers for the people to think this way. It is not a secret, but it is less known that there are better ways of making true predictions of the future than reading star signs and tea leaves. These things do work, but they are vague—simplistic—often times nearly useless. Those with an aptitude for divination need not limit themselves to these things, nor do we need to wait for a prophecy to come to us. With proper training, a skilled Seer can reach out and pull in wisps of knowledge from the void—flashes of information, far less than a true prophecy, but enough to discern meaning from it. This is how a Naming Seer will find the perfect name for a young child in families that adhere to that practice. Your Professors Sybill Trelawney and Remus Lupin both have the mark of a Naming Seer’s choice about them.”

Cho considered that thoughtfully. She’d wondered a bit about Professor Lupin—first and last names both associated with wolves, and he becomes a werewolf at a young age. She could only guess the fact that wolves were also associated with strength and power led his parents to accept that name when he was born.

Cho Chang sat in the audience at the public seminar, playing the part of an eager student. As Dumbledore had requested, she had keep the secret that she was a Seer herself. She had told only her best friend, Marietta, with a stern warning of how serious it was, for the purpose of being able to cover for her to their other roommates.

Madam Fan didn’t speak much about what Cho and Trelawney had been learning privately. They had started with dream interpretation, since that was where professional divining overlapped most with the class, but they were getting _deep_ into lucid dreaming. It was a difficult skill, but she was making gradual progress. From there they had jumped to meditative visions and (slightly different) light trances such as a Naming Seer would use. They had also progressed from more abstract forms of divining like crystal gazing to proper scrying.

The big event of that afternoon was not part of the lesson. It happened while Madam Fan was discussing the dangers of diviners. “Divination can be a deadly tool in the wrong hands,” she was saying. “It is not just the knowing—not the burden of foresight, however heavy. Nor is the ability to find out what is secret from the enemy, for this can be guarded against just as with Legilimency. It is what you _do_ with the knowledge you learn. Gellert Grindelwald was a powerful diviner, and he used it to recruit an army. He was _not_ a Seer. No true prophecies came to him. He used a dark branch of alchemy, and a form of scrying, to call up visions of the future. In doing so, he used an art that even I have not been able to replicate, else I would know the ending of the present war already. He foresaw the muggles’ second Great War and—” Suddenly, she went rigid and gave a start that Cho could almost hear rattling her bones. Her breath crackled unhealthily, and she rasped out, _“The three brothers of death have arrived! Their shadow falls over Hogwarts!”_

As her talisman repeated the message, the Great Hall fell into chaos. Half the audience was shocked to here a true prophecy uttered in their hearing. The other half had the sense to be properly worried by the content of that message. More than a few people noticed Dumbledore look so startled on hearing the words that he nearly fell out of his seat at the side of the Hall, before he jumped up and hurried over to Madam Fan to try to defuse the situation. However, everyone _did_ seem to miss the three Slytherin seventh-years who looked on with pale faces and whispered hurriedly to each other, then looked for a discreet way to slip out of the Hall.

There was one other person who had an unusual reaction to the prophecy. Luna Lovegood leapt from her seat and yelped, “Merlin’s pants!” Then, she grabbed Harry and pulled him from the Hall. Hermione got up to follow them.

“Luna, what’s wrong?” Harry said once they were alone.

“Harry, that prophecy could be very bad,” Luna said worriedly. “How much do you know about the Deathly Hallows?”

* * *

Harry and Hermione were on high alert after that, but nothing seemed to come of the prophecy, and Dumbledore didn’t say anything to them about it. Then, three weeks into the term, something else happened that had them more preoccupied.

Dumbledore rose at dinner and addressed the school: “May I have your attention, please? The teachers and I feel that in these troubled times, it is important not to lose sight of what we’re fighting for. Therefore, we had planned for a little something to raise morale this winter. We had intended to announce this at the start of the term, but Hogwarts has been under a soft quarantine since then, and we did not want to announce it until we were certain it would go on. That is now finished, so I am pleased that I can tell you on Saturday, the seventeenth of February, Hogwarts will be hosting a Valentine’s Ball.”

And that got everyone excited—girls especially, but the older boys weren’t immune. A school dance was just the thing to break the right now. Harry and Hermione, of course, had sure dates waiting, which made it rather less stressful than the Yule Ball had been. It sounded like it would be a fun time.

* * *

Cho Chang floated above the Quidditch pitch that weekend, searching carefully for the Snitch. It was their match against Slytherin, so it was especially important for her to show up Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Seeker.

Things were going well at first. The Slytherins played dirty, but that was normal for them. The Ravenclaw Chasers were holding their own. Suddenly, she saw it. A glint of gold in the sun. Cho started after it, but almost immediately, she pulled back so hard that she wobbled and nearly toppled off her broom. The glint of gold wasn’t the Snitch. It was a towering column of flames.

The Quidditch pitch was on fire. Flames swirled all around her in a firestorm, engulfing it from one end to the other. There was no one in the air, but she saw dozens of people running across the grounds to the edge of the wards in the firelight. She barely even noticed that it was suddenly nighttime. She had to get away fast—

“ _CHO! What are you doing?!_ ” Roger yelled. She blinked and he was in her face, screaming at her to get a move on. “Malfoy almost got the Snitch!”

“Wha—I—Sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” she said. She zipped away more so she wouldn’t have to talk to him anymore than to go after Malfoy. She stared around in a daze. Everything was fine—the Quidditch game, the stands, the daylight, the crowd. It hadn’t felt like a vision—not the kind she’d been practising with Madam Fan, anyway. She’d really felt like she was there.

She didn’t know what it meant. She _hoped_ it wasn’t literal. She’d have to ask Madam Fan about it right away, though. She had a bad feeling about it. And she should tell Professor Dumbledore, too. He said he wanted to know everything she Saw regarding the safety of the school.

 _After_ she kicked Malfoy’s arse, of course. She got back in gear and zoomed off again.


End file.
